


the vampire armand

by lairdofthelochs



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Slow Burn, can you call this ust?, written mostly from armie's pov but not in second person pov you'll be delighted to know, yeah let's do that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-15 17:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13035747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lairdofthelochs/pseuds/lairdofthelochs
Summary: A 310 year-old vampire and a 20 year-old actor. One summer in Crema. It's the beginning of a beautiful friendship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn't thought of writing another CMBYN real person fic, but I received a Tumblr prompt which was too difficult to resist -- a platonic Timmy/Armie fic with Armie being an age-old vampire while in Crema. And yes, it could have been crack. It could have easily gone that way. It still could. But instead, have lots of pop-culture references instead. If Armie were a vampire, I think this was the kind of vampire he would be like. 
> 
> Please disagree with me if I'm wrong in the comments below. (grins)
> 
> ETA:  
> Playlist for this fic now available [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/incendiarywit/playlist/5VVbHHgT37RWodNEv1QWT0)
> 
>  
> 
> [General CMBYN playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/incendiarywit/playlist/3pQLEqUjhZecl57LM8hS6O)
> 
>  
> 
> [Armie/Timmy general friendship playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/incendiarywit/playlist/0lmUZKlKTle4ta1ULfnZEy)

The plague, the Napoleonic Wars, the French and Russian Revolutions, the World Wars – he’s been through it all. Lived it. Breathed it. He’s tasted the putrefaction and seen the deaths. The shrieks of his compatriots from those conflicts had not left his memories, as if they were still there by his side, screaming into his ears.

There was pain and hurt – there was pleasure and joy. He has loved and been loved, he has hated and been hated.

He has lived – and he has died.

And now, he lives again.

 

* * *

 

He remembers Elizabeth– and he will always cherish her. He tells himself that he will never love another the same way as he has loved her. It has been two hundred years, and if he guards himself— it will be another two hundred years, and another, and another.

There have been other loves that have come and gone, but they were loves borne out of kindness and generosity. They were people that he had cared about – but also the same people that he had kept at arms’ length. They were friends that he had loved and adored while they lived– but also the friends that he could not bury when they died.

How could he tell them that he’s a living dead?

A _vampire?_

With fangs?

When he’s towering over them like a giant, with his collars popped up as if reminding them of Bela Lugosi’s version of _Dracula_ , with a name that is also very reminiscent of a certain fictional vampire from Anne Rice’s books–

They would probably laugh at him.

(In fact, three of his best mates who have now since died – of natural causes, might he add – did laugh at his face when he told them earnestly about his plight. They’d mistaken it for either an a) late April Fool’s joke, b) a cheap Halloween trick or c) some lines he was trying to memorize for an audition for a _Dracula_ spin-off – this was during a time long before _Twilight_ even existed).

He still loved them, though. Even if they never knew the truth, even until the end.

Luca once told him that should he feel like returning to Europe and meeting up with his old (some of them may be at least 600 years old) vampire friends, he’s more than welcome. Luca’s told him that he’s moved to Crema – some small town in Northern Italy, with friendly Italian faces and a lovely Mediterranean climate. He immediately thought of that Jarmusch film he saw in LA a few years back, the one with Tilda Swinton and Tom Hiddleston; that was set in Morocco. All warm colours and sweat and heat, even if there was no sunlight that he could witness with his own eyes, or feel on his pale skin.

He wonders if that’s what it might be like.

‘Stop brooding,’ Luca has said, almost gruffly on the phone. ‘Stop thinking. Just come to Crema.’

Maybe Luca’s right. When was Luca ever wrong about him, though?

And yet, he would like to think that he’s not a typical kind of brooding vampire akin to Anne Rice’s iteration, or God forbid – Edward Cullen. That said, with the way he dresses now, it’s probably easier for people to lump him in the latter category than say, Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt with long hair and fancy clothes.  And no— if he was Louis, then his creator definitely was _not_ Lestat.

Doesn’t help with his name, though.

It’s the one reason why he doesn’t like telling people (read: other vampires) his name. Especially the acutely aware ones— the ones who (like him) are fervently keeping in touch with pop-culture, even if it’s to the detriment of his sanity.

The Vampire _Armand._

Ha.

He definitely does not have a coven of vampires in a theatre, though. Definitely isn’t as charming as Antonio Banderas, bless his soul. (Where is he now, anyway?) He wouldn’t like to think that he’s as sadomasochistic as his namesake character, either. His predilection for ropes would probably say otherwise, but that’s another story for another day.

Sometimes he’d like to think that he was Crowley from _Good Omens_ (a demon rather than a vampire, yes, he knows this) – although he was probably ninety-three percent less cool than Crowley, and definitely a bajillion percent less powerful. He’s definitely not kept in the loop with Vampire Politics – that was the only part that _True Blood_ got right; that the Kings and Queens in the southern parts of good ol’ America can get very territorial. LA used to have only smaller covens, but the movie making business became so big that everyone – humans and vampires alike – decided to converge on one bloodsucking place, like vultures, draining the life out of their prey.

(He’s never been to New Zealand, sadly. He couldn’t say whether Taika Waititi’s version of the New Zealand vampires is accurate, but Mr Waititi’s film was definitely _very_ entertaining. He wonders why life for modern vampires in LA couldn’t be _that_ fun.)

He’d been stopped a few times, asked by prowling agents to become a model or an actor. In another life, he would have said yes. But he knew better, and he knew himself –so he said no. He’s lived enough lives to live in different skins, under different names, in different parts of the world. It almost felt like he could see through them all. He would be 310 years old this year. How many human lives would that account for?

How many human lives had he divested for his own convenience?

Now, he likes to keep himself to himself, although that doesn’t bode well when it comes to feeding. One couldn’t easily just murder someone in the good old days and make people disappear. He still has his underground sources – especially when one is good friends with doctors and nurses from the local hospital. He’s missed hunting for prey– the urge did get to him, but he’s gotten round that problem about one hundred twenty three years ago.

Livestock.

Imagine, though—a socially aware _Vegan_ Vampire.

Gosh, he _is_ beginning to sound like Edward Cullen.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it was boredom that made him fly to Crema. That, and Luca’s gentle persistence in reminding him through every Skype conversation that it’s going to be worthwhile. As if there’s something else that Luca wants him to see. Not just Crema and its people, its summer weather and this villa that he couldn’t stop raving about. It’s not just about the safe haven for vampires that Luca’s built there, not just a coven (how he hates that word, it’s vilifying, almost) – it’s a _community._ He’s heard of them, like the ones scattered across the Steppes, or in the Scottish Highlands.

Luca’s even given him a complete itinerary – which flights to take in order to avoid the sun, especially in the summer. All in all it had taken him a full week to arrive safely at Luca’s doorstep, late on a midsummer’s night – from when he first set off in LA.

The town is unsurprisingly quiet. Unlike the continuous hustle and bustle of Rome, he is happy to soak in the silence. He could smell the sun on Luca’s marbled stoop— unlike the one in Los Angeles, where there is sun and fake tan and glossy white teeth all at the same time. The metal balustrade was still warm, still holding onto the last heat of today’s sunset. He looks up at the skies.

Stars, instead of satellites.

An owl hoots in the distance, calling out for the moon. The werewolves won’t be out for another few weeks yet.

He rings the doorbell and waits for a few seconds before the wooden door abruptly opens. He’s expected Luca, his sagely face appearing from behind the door – but this gangly, pale youth grinning enthusiastically at him definitely _isn’t_ Luca.

And he definitely _isn’t_ a vampire.

He could smell the fresh, warm blood pumping in the boy’s veins – raw; inviolate.

He could sense his own glutton and greed rising up inside of him—after all, he hasn’t fed in days, he’s ravenous. Desolate. And to have this unsuspecting kid presenting himself openly, with no care in the world? Surely the kid must know what Luca is.

What _he_ is.

“Er,” he begins nervously. “Hi? I’m looking for Luca.”

“You must be Armand!”

He could have rolled his eyes into the next astral plane if he could. “Please call me Armie. I’m— _no—_ ,” he shakes his head profusely. “Only Luca calls me Armand now, and that’s only because – he made—,” he pauses, before he backtracks a bit, in order not to give himself away too soon. “Wait a second. Who _are_ you?”

“I’m Timothée. Call me Timmy, though,” he holds out a hand. “Armie, is it?” he tilts his head, as if to acknowledge the abridgements of their names.

Armie reciprocates the handshake. Firm grasp. Warm. The boy doesn’t even flinch at Armie’s cold skin touching his. Like he’s used to it.

“Timo— _thay?_ ” Armie narrows his eyes.

The kid hesitates, before shrugging his shoulders in a ‘can’t help it’ sign. “I’ll explain later. You must be tired. Luca has some O-neg he’s procured especially for you from the local hospital.”

In this short interaction, Armie has noticed three things:

  * Timmy has an American accent, but he doesn’t quite know from which part;
  * Timmy is human, but he casually acknowledges the fact that Luca and Armie are vampires – which is very odd and fascinating at the same time, and—
  * Timmy is holding Turgenev’s _Fathers and Sons_ in his left hand, his index finger acting as a bookmark as to not lose the page he’s currently reading.



“Turgenev, huh?” he asks as Timmy takes him through the different corridors of the villa; Armie tagging along behind him like an oversized Borzoi.

“You read Turgenev?” Timmy asks, eyes twinkling in the half-light. “Shit, of course you do. You’re like, probably 500 years old, or something. You must have read everything.”

“Fathers and Sons is my favourite. I had the first edition text, in original Russian, back in LA.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I was in Petersburg when it was published. The uproar that it caused? I was there.”

“Wooooo- _oow.”_

At this point, Timmy has paused in the middle of the corridor, looking up at Armie in such unadulterated wonderment, mouth agape— as if Armie’s the most interesting man that he’s met in the history of the universe. Which must not be true, considering how Timmy’s already met Luca, and is staying at his villa.

“I had trouble identifying with Bazarov though,” Timmy then says, once he’s shaken off his awe. “He seems very abrupt, with his nihilist beliefs – it’s a bit too extreme for me. But then, when he meets Madame Odintsov…”

“You can identify with his awkwardness?” Armie interrupts.

“It’s not the point of the book, I know, but—,” Timmy begins, before his expression changes from contemplation to total surprise. “How did you know I was going to say that?”

Armie allows himself to smile. There is no way he could hold back his own honesty, not when his sparring partner seems too earnest. Even with a stranger, a potential predator. Especially with a stranger – a _known_ predator. Armie’s a vampire, for Vlad’s sake. “Because that was how I felt when I read it too,” Armie replies anyway.

Timmy smiles wider, crinkly crescent lines decorating the corners of his eyes when he does. He scratches the back of his head with the upper corner of the book’s spine, before looking down at the floor – as if finding the patterns of the tiles more interesting than Armie’s face.

It’s ironic that they’re talking about _Fathers and Sons_ now – a novel about the social divide, between the older and younger generation, between a nihilist and a liberal, between someone who has closed himself off and someone who wears his heart on his sleeve. Because here is a 20 year-old human and a 310 year-old vampire.

There couldn’t be a wider social divide than that. And yet, here they are— bonding over Turgenev.

“Um,” Timmy purses his lips, “Luca must be wondering where we are.”

Armie hesitates, before shrugging his shoulders in a ‘can’t help it’ sign. Mimicking Timmy’s gesture from earlier when he asked Timmy about the pronunciation of his first name. Timmy recognizes it, and he laughs.

It’s infectious—Armie couldn’t help but laugh too, even if he lets out only a tiny chuckle. And it’s not something out of sarcasm or nervousness, but out of pure joy and delight.

“Let me know what you think of the ending,” Armie tells Timmy after he shows him the door to Luca’s study.

“Tomorrow at dinner,” Timmy says, before turning on the balls of his heels, making his way back to his own room.

“Tomorrow at dinner,” Armie nods, before knocking on Luca’s door. He looks up at the corridor. Timmy’s already gone.

A faint ‘come in’ comes from the other side of the door, and Armie turns the door handle to see Luca at his table, typing furiously on his laptop, as if working on something urgent. He lifts his head up absentmindedly before sending Armie an indecipherable look.

“What?” Armie asks, now getting a tad annoyed.

Luca has the audacity to only raise his eyebrows and blink at Armie wordlessly.

“What?” Armie repeats again, now in a higher octave.

“Well,” Luca pushes back from his table but with his fingers still only inches away from his keyboard, “—have you met him?”

“Who? Timmy?” Armie asks. Luca nods, with an annoyingly sagacious, anticipatory smile. Like Yoda. Without the back-to-front grammar. “How did you find that kid anyway?”

“He’s an actor,” Luca tells Armie, gesturing him to sit down on the sofa next to the bookshelf. “He’s from New York, just flew in three weeks ago. He’s going to be the lead actor in the new film that I’m producing. Shooting starts next week.”

“Right,” Armie blinks back at Luca. “And he’s human. And knows that we’re vampires. Like it’s no big deal?”

“His sister was turned three years ago in Hell’s Kitchen,” Luca explains. Armie’s eyes widen in shock. That—could have explained his ease and casualness, but still—shouldn’t there be fear behind all that boldness?  Losing his sister – to immortality, to this wretched life, it should have been a tragedy, shouldn’t it? “And before you ask,” Luca resumes, “—I don’t know who turned her, except that they’re probably one of those newly turned vampires who still hadn’t been able to satiate their appetite.”

Armie grits his teeth in frustration. “You know that I could have jumped him, right? I hadn’t had _anything_ for days. And I could have easily killed this ‘lead actor for this new film that you’re producing’,” Armie counters using Luca’s own words from before, “—and you would have to find a new lead actor one week before shooting starts, Luca. Not a wise move.”

“You _could_ have jumped him,” Luca leans back in his chair, laissez-faire as anything in the world, crossing his arms and stretching his legs underneath the table as Armie looms over him like the leaning tower of Pisa. “But—,” Luca tilts his head, “—I know you have more self-control than that. I know _you,_ Armie.”

“Yes, because you turned me,” Armie mutters under his breath.

Luca tuts. “I know you’re alone, and you’re lonely. You need a friend.”

“I _have_ friends,” Armie retorts, almost childishly, like a boy being cornered into a room by a schoolmaster.

“You do,” Luca concurs, in that gentle chiding tone of his. “But do you have a _friend?_ ”

Observe everything, admire nothing.

Don’t get attached.

Don’t get attached.

_Don’t get attached._

One thing that no one tells him about becoming a vampire is despite the monstrosity and the inhumane acts that he had to do to survive, the human emotions in him still threatens to take over. The pain, the hurt.

The loneliness.

Shut it down, it’s the only way he could live and watch the people he cares about die.

So the easiest way is not to care about people. Right? It’s logical. So why is Luca, the oldest vampire he’s ever known, is forcing this issue on him?

“Truth is,” Luca says, “—the first time I met him, it was purely for this film. He’s an amazing actor. But underneath all that, he’s an interesting young man. And you know why I think so?”

Armie doesn’t reply, because he really doesn’t know the answer to that. So he shakes his head, and trembles as Luca gives him a goblet of fresh O-neg from the minibar.

“Because he reminds me of you,” Luca confesses. “That enthusiasm, that honesty, that gregariousness. And that spark – in you, it’s dying, Armie. I know you’ve died. But I want you to live. I turned you so you could live. But not like this.”

“You can’t force friendship, Luca,” Armie says, once he’s drained his goblet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You can’t force life.”

“I know,” Luca says, with a tinge of sadness in his voice. “But I’d hoped that I could try.”

 

\--

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This totally ran away from me. I approximated the fic to be a two-parter, but I have a feeling that this is going to be longer. So for now I've estimated it to be three chapters (for now). I don't even know if this is a legitimate thing. It's not even canon! What am I doing????

Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t sleep in crypts or coffins, although the idea intrigues him. With the rise of vampire literature starting with John Polidori, his intent to shy away from the Vampire Stereotype becomes even stronger. He’d been through the Wikipedia entry for vampires, and had to stop reading at the mention of the Chupacabra.

That was him, with a bunch of other vampires residing in Mexico in the 90s.

Feeding on goats and livestock.

(What did he say earlier about trying to be a socially aware, Vegan Vampire?)

When it was clear that it was causing more harm and furore than good, he’d decided to leave Mexico and move back north to California. Since then, he’s been living comfortably – making a living out of screenwriting, a job that doesn’t require him going out before sundown. He sleeps in a king-sized bed, with blockout curtains and tinted windows for safe measure. So no— he doesn’t sleep in a crypt. His LA apartment may shield him from sunlight enough, but no, he doesn’t have a special bunker.

In the good old days of the 1790s, not everyone has the same privilege. Luca had made sure that he earned the comforts that he received. It’s not easy to be a 6 foot 5 tall vampire. Even for an unearthly creature such as a vampire, his stature is still above average. A casting director had asked him to read for the part of Eric Northman in _True Blood,_ way back when. He still finds humour in the irony, even now, long after the series was over. He isn’t the least bit Viking, but the casting director sure had seen something in him that was Eric-Northman-like. (They found Alexander Skarsgard, though. He’s not a vampire in real life – _yet,_ but one does wonder what kind of vampire he would be).

He’d dabbled in acting – but Luca made a point to tell him, at the point where their paths diverged many, many moons ago, that it would never be safe for him to be a public figure. ‘Be good at what you do, be amazing – but never be famous,’ Luca had said. So he’d tried a few parts, in a travelling troupe across America, across Europe. Stayed for a while in London and performed at Covent Garden, where he’d bumped into Kit Marlowe – two hundred years after his supposed death in that pub brawl. He’d mingled with French aristocrats before Robespierre and Madame Guillotine took over. He’d mingled with Russian aristocrats before Napoleon invaded Paris, and had seen him whimper into the ship that would later take him to St Helena.

He might have even been a baronet himself here and a Comte there, but was careful to never have his portrait painted. He was in a few silent films which now had all but been lost, and had been extras in a few black and white Hollywood films pre-code, back in the 1930s. He’d met a young Clark Gable before Gone with the Wind, had briefly romanced Myrna Loy and Bette Davis, and yet had been careful to never get photographed. He’d played different parts; that acting had come so naturally to him – he’d had forever to prepare.

The whole world was a stage, and his whole life was an audition—

For the one, perfect part that never came.

His own true self.

 

* * *

 

It’s a good thing that vampires don’t suffer from jet-lag. He’s been awake for nearly 47 hours now, and yet he isn’t fatigued. Looking at the clock, it’s 5 pm and he knows that the sun is still out – and will be out for another five hours.

Luca has shut all the windows, and Armie is careful to not step on where the sunlight filters through each crack, through every small aperture. That evening Luca tells him that Timmy was at a piano lesson, then a guitar lesson. Now he’s probably at an Italian lesson, before meeting up with the actor whom he will be acting opposite with.

“Hmm,” Armie furrows his brows as he sips on a Bloody Caesar cocktail, with B+ blood that suits his taste just perfectly. “Sounds like he’s going to be busy. Especially when shooting starts. You and I know what it’s like with these films,” he sighs. “I’ve worked with you many times before.”

Luca purses his lips. “Somehow I have a feeling that this time it’s going to be different,” he shrugs. “For me, for you, for him.”

A pause, then: “What is this film about, anyway?”

Luca suddenly drops a heavy bundle of paper from nowhere– the script of the film – onto the table, right next to Armie’s plate. The clang of the cutlery is enough to make Armie jolt. “Call me by your name?” he pulls a cynical face. “What does that even mean?”

“For someone who talks a lot about meeting so-and-so and reading Turgenev and Dostoevsky, you could be too dense sometimes,” Luca says, before dropping a battered paperback on top of the piles of paper.

Armie peers at the title of the novel, picks it up and reads the blurb at the back of the book. “So the film is based on this? Why haven’t I heard of this book before?”

“Just because you’re 310 years old, it doesn’t mean that you’d have heard of everything, Ar- _mand_.”

“I would agree with that,” Armie concurs as he flips through the pages of the novel, while simultaneously choosing to ignore Luca’s choice of name-usage.

“And it’s about love. First love. Filial love. Family love,” Luca explains, with a paternal tone that never fails to send shivers down Armie’s spine. “The romantic and the agape. Carnal desires and innocent loves,” he says. Then, distractedly he adds, “But at the end of the day, it’s ultimately about finding a way to love yourself—and being able to accept who you are.”

“Are you trying to tell me something, Luca?” Armie asks, lifting his head away from the book, but Luca’s already nowhere to be seen.

Typical.

Instead, now he could hear the faint sounds of piano notes tinkling softly from a few doors away – rough, unpolished. Different variations of the same tune.

Bach, most likely.

He thinks he might have been there when this piece was first performed, somewhere in Leipzig or in Dresden. He couldn’t really remember. But the way it’s played – it sounds wrong, but right at the same time. As if it’s written by Bach, but played in the style of someone else. Busoni, or maybe Liszt? He’d had the opportunity to meet Liszt in Weimar, in 1848—this was back when he was an aide to the Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna. The tune sounds like what Bach would write – but like what Liszt would play.

It’s unsettling.

Armie hesitates outside the door – he could see sunlight streaming from inside, spilling over through the crack underneath the door. Gently, he knocks the door and says, ‘Hello?’

The song stops abruptly.

“Who’s there?”

It’s Timmy— panic rising in his voice, as if he hadn’t meant for this to be heard by anyone in the villa.

“It’s Armie,” he replies, perplexed at the sudden croakiness of his own voice. Must be the cocktail from earlier, he thinks.

More rustling sounds and shuffles from behind the door, slamming of doors and windows. The piercing sunlight has all but disappeared, blocked by what Armie assumes as the windows being shut to accommodate Armie’s vampiric, sun-loathing presence. Moments later, the door opens. Timmy is beaming at him, cheeks flushed. His smile is as warm and light as the real sunshine itself.

“Hi,” Timmy says breathlessly. “Sorry, I was just shutting the windows, so you could come in.”

“Sorry if I’m disturbing you.”

“No, I’m glad to see you,” Timmy nods graciously. He gestures Armie to come in, as he resumes his seat at the grand piano, stretching his long fingers above the ivory and ebony keys. Armie’s gaze flickers to the sheets of music resting upon the wooden rack hinge.

It _is_ Bach. He hasn’t gone mad, after all.

“It’s nice to have someone else who could speak English in this town, you know,” Timmy continues speaking, without looking at him. “Luca could—obviously, but he’s too busy doing his producing work that he has no time to accommodate me.”

“That’s a shame,”Armie agrees. “I thought you were meeting your co-star today?”

“We did,” Timmy’s grin widens. It’s clear how he is enthusiastic about everything related to this project, that he gets excited over the smallest things –and Armie wishes he could steal some of that eagerness. “He’s a nice guy. Barged straight into my piano lesson, could you believe it? Then we went cycling around town for a bit. I just came back from town, actually. Then I realized that I haven’t really practiced for tomorrow’s lesson.”

Armie is still standing in the middle of the room, with the script and the book still clutched under his arms. He still doesn’t really know why Timmy needs to learn to play the piano, or the guitar, or learn Italian – or sequester himself in this tiny town where he and Armie are potentially the only Americans around.

Timmy starts playing again – missing a few beats, hitting the wrong notes – but Armie’s getting the hang of it. Soon he’s already humming the tune along, and sees a guitar in the corner of the room. Without hesitation, he dumps the script on a nearby chair, strides over to pick up the guitar and strums the instrument to accompany Timmy.

At the sound of the guitar, it is Timmy’s turn to pause and look at Armie in puzzlement.

“It’s Bach, isn’t it?” Armie asks.

“Yes,” Timmy replies, “—but I played it the way Liszt would have played it.”

Armie frowns. He was right about Liszt. But – “Why would you do that?”

Timmy looks at him, half-amused, half-concerned – then, begins playing the piece again. Armie attempts to follow with the guitar – but – then, he pauses too. There’s something about the piece that isn’t quite right. “You changed it!” Armie accuses Timmy with an uncharacteristic shriek.

“Not by much,” Timmy replies, almost too nonchalantly. “That’s how Busoni would have played it if he altered Liszt’s version.”

Armie sets the guitar aside, shocked at this youngster’s audacity. Both Liszt and Bach would probably be rolling in their graves – and as for Busoni, well – Armie’s never met Busoni, so he couldn’t say much about the Italian. “Can’t you just play the Bach the way Bach wrote it?”

There is brief moment where Timmy just gazes up at Armie in disbelief, as if this whole conversation is too surreal to even be happening, and Armie doesn’t understand why Timmy’s acting the way he is. “Bach never wrote it for the guitar—,” Timmy says, his head gesturing towards the instrument now cradled on Armie’s lap, “—in fact, we’re not even sure it’s Bach at all.”

Armie holds the guitar and lets it stand upright against the corner of the sofa, before making elaborate motions to leave. He leans down to pick up the script and the novel, before waving his arms in the air – “Forget I asked,” he says without even looking at Timmy before making his way to the door, and he swears he could hear a gasp coming from the younger man sitting just a few arm-lengths away from him.

Timmy lets out a long, deep breath, and shakes his head – before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, okay,” he says. “No need to get so worked up,” he says, and turns his back against Armie—returning his concentration on the piano. He begins playing – as Bach would have intended it to be, smooth and gentle, no clever alterations by Liszt or Busoni’s spirit. “It’s young Bach,” Timmy explains, his voice rising above the melody he is currently playing. A gentle chide and reminder of Armie’s own memories of the piece, of Bach himself— of Armie’s time sojourning in Eisenach, Ohrdruf, Weimar. “He dedicated it to his brother,” Timmy adds kindly, pulling Armie away from his Germanic reverie.

He pauses in his stride, and nods. Armie sits back down on the sofa, watching as Timmy’s head bob up and down with every key that he presses, every sway of his body, every tap of his feet.

It’s beautiful.

When the song ends, Timmy spares a glance at the script that Armie is still holding, and asks, “I take it you’ve read the script of the film, then?”

Armie says no— he’s only received the copy of both the novel and the screenplay a few hours ago, and he still has no idea what the film is about.

Timmy stares at Armie as if he has just killed a goat.

 

* * *

 

Dinner that night is at a restaurant in town, where the owner is a long-time friend of Luca’s, and a 570 year-old vampire who has lived in Crema for the last three hundred years. At the sight of Timmy, Armie knows that Antonio and his staff may be drooling for a taste of the young American’s blood – but they would have to get through Armie first. He won’t let anyone harm Timmy—and no, Armie doesn’t have a tangible explanation for why that is.

Due to his rusty Italian, they’ve served him a rare steak – and this ultimately means a raw, uncooked steak – which Armie eats heartily anyway. To top it all off, they’ve served him with fresh calf blood that tastes good enough to be human.

Timmy sits through all this as if he is among friends, human friends – and not a coven of vampires that would turn against him in no time at all. Armie thinks of _What We Do in the Shadows_ – of Stu the IT guy, and how in this tiny town, Timmy is their Stu. In one tiny moment of realization, Armie’s need to protect Timmy exponentially becomes stronger.  

During one of their lulls in conversation, Timmy leans over to Armie and whispers, “I’ve finished _Fathers and Sons_ last night.”

“What did you think of it?”

Timmy blinks into his wine, and lets out a heavy sigh. He moves his legs underneath the table, accidentally kicking Armie’s foot in the process. “It’s making me think things.”

“Like what?” Armie asks. He doesn’t move his foot away. He could feel the pressure of Timmy’s muddy Chuck Taylors against the fronts of his shiny Louboutins.

“ _However passionate, sinful and rebellious the heart hidden in the tomb, the flowers growing over it peep at us serenely with their innocent eyes; they speak to us not only of eternal peace, of the vast repose of ‘indifferent’ nature—,”_ Timmy recites the last paragraph of the novel, _“—they tell us, too, of everlasting reconciliation and of life which has no end.”_

“Life which has no end—,” Armie echoes, albeit with a hollow ring to it, “—like the one I’m living now, I suppose.” He’s lived for three centuries and yet he’s never found eternal peace, or an everlasting reconciliation. It galls him to not be able to grasp what Turgenev means.

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding,” Timmy says after Armie trails off, lost in his thoughts. “After all, I’ve only known you for a day and a half.”

Armie shakes his head and waves Timmy off unflappably. “No, no, no—you’re not intruding. You just caught me in my melancholic moments, is all,” he says, wiping his lips with his napkin, staining red against the stark white of the fabric. “You know, I’ve never really met someone your age who reads Turgenev for fun.”

“This is going to sound facetious, but— I _love_ reading,” Timmy replies earnestly.

Armie leans forward and rests his chin on his palm, elbow perching on the edge of the dinner table. Luca and his husband are talking loudly on the other end of the table, in Italian. Let them talk. Armie’s helplessly sucked into this forgotten corner, confronted by someone who’s telling him that he loves reading – not only that, but probably also has the ability of reading Armie like an open book, too. It reminds him of a quote he’s read somewhere – _“Whenever I see someone reading a book, especially if it is someone I don’t expect, I feel civilisation has become a little safer.”_

And maybe, he does feel safer in Crema, with this coven of vampires, with Luca – and ultimately, with Timmy. “And the book that this film is based on? I’m not going to lie, but I did shed a single tear by the end of it,” Timmy adds, unabashedly.  

“I’ve got to rectify that, then,”Armie replies. “I’ll read it tonight and tell you what I think of it tomorrow.”

Timmy’s eyes widen in wholehearted, unsullied anticipation. “And the screenplay too?”

“That too,” Armie says unhesitatingly.

“I’m curious to know what you think of it, considering—,” Timmy pauses, but he doesn’t resume the sentence, leaving the words hanging, unfinished, up in the air.

Armie narrows his eyes. “Considering…what?”

“You’ll see what I mean,” Timmy shrugs, attempting casual but it all comes up nervous and unsure. “Don’t really want to spoil it.”

“Hmm,” Armie clenches his jaw. He glances at Luca, at the vivacious conversations in Italian, then at Timmy’s constant, unchanging, affectionate gaze. The specks of hazel and emerald in his eyes, like kaleidoscope.

It reminds him of Elizabeth.

Armie closes his eyes and tries to shake the image away. When he opens them, he looks up at Timmy again, who is checking his phone and failing miserably to suppress a laugh. “My sister – she just sent me the stupidest Vine ever,” he says, before sharing it with Armie. “I don’t suppose you have Instagram, or Twitter, or WhatsApp, do you?” Timmy asks.

“I do—,”Armie says, “—but it’s private.” He doesn’t know why he gives in, but he does. Soon they are sharing phone numbers and adding each other on multiple social media platforms. He will probably regret this later, but for now, he’s content.

He looks at his watch—it’s only 11.45 pm on a Friday. The night is young.

Armie blurts out a question even before he could stop himself. “Hey, Timmy?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think you’d be able to show me around? We could cycle around town. I know it’s dark now, but I suppose I’ll never get to do it during daytime, so—uh, yeah.”

Timmy blinks at him –once, twice – with the same indecipherable look he had given Armie earlier, in the piano room. As if probing him, as if wondering— ‘why do you even need to ask?’

“Yeah, sure dude,” Timmy says, a few beats later. The smile is back on his face—the same smile he wore on the first night that they met, at Luca’s doorstep. “That would be the coolest thing ever!”

 

* * *

 

Timmy shows him the town, the shops, the night-life. There’s not much to see in the dark, and there are no streetlights in these parts – which causes Timmy to groan in frustration, because there is a ‘really cool place’ he wants Armie to see, but now he couldn’t show it to him.

“Probably next time we should bring flashlights,” Armie suggests. Timmy thinks it’s a great idea.

By the time they get back to Luca’s place, half-an-hour past midnight, it doesn’t look like Luca or his husband have returned home—which means that Timmy and Armie have the whole villa to themselves.

“I’m going to quickly study the script again, and then I’m going to bed,” Timmy tells Armie, at the bottom of the staircase.

Armie scratches the back of his head, which isn’t even itchy, but out of habit. “Well. I’m going to have to study the script too, just to see what the fuss about this film is all about.”

“Luca told me that you were an actor,” Timmy says – after taking a few steps upwards, but pausing only to have this last word, as if he needs to get it off his chest before the night is over.  

“It was a long time ago,” Armie confesses. Gods, it has been so long. And yet—it feels like he’s never really taken off this mask, that he’s still playing a role.

“I wonder what would happen if you were the one cast to act opposite me, as Oliver.”

Armie looks up at Timmy now, and he could hear the younger man’s heart beating harder, faster, as if daring Armie to cross a threshold that he knows he shouldn’t. He could see Timmy’s pulse point – each rise and collapse of it; the pale expanse of his neck, silhouetted by the moonlight. He could hear the whooshing sound of Timmy's blood coursing through the valves of his veins, even from where Armie stands right now.

In the end, he chooses the honourable path, the one where he doesn’t fall for his own avaricious desires for bloodlust. He laces his comment with humour, and with truth – because he doesn’t think Timmy deserves to be lied to. “Honestly, I don’t know who Oliver is – but if I were to be working as an actor in this summer heat, I would probably be toast. Can’t handle the sun, kid,” he says, with the most charming Californian smile he could muster.

Timmy considers this answer, then, nods agreeably. “That’s true. Well, goodnight then,” he says, before skipping two steps in his stride upstairs.

“Later,” Armie replies, without giving it much thought.

The pace of those steps recedes abruptly at the sound of that word– _Later_ – and stops altogether at the top of the stairs, but Timmy doesn’t take a peek back downstairs. Armie knows this, because he waits. And waits.

But nothing comes.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t until _later_ that Armie realizes why Timmy has acted the way he did – with the mere mention of the word _Later,_ or the hypothetical question about Armie playing Oliver. He could easily picture Timmy as Elio, the musical genius, the bookworm, the sensitive soul; with so much life and love compressed within mere seventeen years. It is harder still to imagine himself playing Oliver, this object of Elio’s desire – this seemingly callous and cruel being, and yet also so kind and loving.

And of course, it isn’t until later that Armie eventually comes to the piano scene, where Elio changes the Bach to iterations of Liszt and Busoni – and how uncanny his own, unpremeditated reactions had been – so similar to Oliver, and yet – so different.

 _He plays it beautifully, as if sending it to Oliver as a gift,_ the screenplay says.

Was that what Timmy was trying to do?

Was he, Armand the Vampire – and not Oliver the Usurper— even worthy of such a precious gift?

 

* * *

 

That night, for the first time in years, Armie feels an unbearable need to hunt for prey.

 

\--

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic continues to grow arms and legs. 
> 
> Watch me suffer. Better still, come and suffer with me.

He bumps into Luca the next day, in his study.

Looks like it’s not just Armie who’s nursing a hangover.

“Someone had a rough night,” Armie remarks not-unkindly, as he leans against the doorframe. Luca is lying on the sofa with an arm covering his eyes, the blinds completely shutting out the sunlight from outside. It’s 2 pm on a Saturday afternoon, and Timmy is nowhere to be seen. Armie gathers that he must be spending time with his co-star, then.

The one who will be playing Oliver.

Luca shifts his arm and squints at Armie from where he is lying. “Pot calling kettle black,” he mumbles. “What would you have done if Antonio doesn’t have an emergency pig farm for your emergency hunting needs?” he asks, before sitting up higher to have a better look at Armie—and scrunches his nose at the sight of him. “Have you even changed yet from last night?”

Armie peers down at his clothes, and briefly rubs his jaw. He knows that he looks as though he’s escaped a slaughterhouse. “Came straight home after and slept,” he shrugs. “Haven’t had time to clean up. It’s all dried blood, though,” he says, rubbing his fingers together. Studies the crimson stains on the ridges of his thumbprints, on the insides of his nails. He licks his lips and could still taste the copper tang of swine blood against his fangs. “Where’s the laundry room around here?”

Luca sighs. “It’s downstairs,” he says. Armie is about to proceed with his ablutions before Luca calls out his name again – “Ar- _mand—_ ,” he bellows, which means that whatever he’s going to say next must be important. Armie rolls his eyes and hunches back to the study balefully. “Yes, Luca?”

“Did something happen last night?”

Armie pretends to be taken aback by this accusation. “Whatever makes you think that?”

“You and Timmy left the restaurant early, and the next thing I know, I get twenty text messages from you asking me if there’s a safe place to hunt. What am I supposed to think?”

Clenching his fists, Armie stumbles reluctantly into the study and sits on the chair opposite Luca’s sofa. “The fucking script,” he groans, cradling his face in his bloodstained hands, muffling his voice as he speaks.

“Language, Armand,” Luca chides, but Armie ignores him in dire consternation.

“The fucking piano scene?” Armie barges on, while Luca stares at him— now quietly alarmed by his distress. “We acted it out in real life without me even knowing that there was a same _fucking_ scene in the _fucking_ script.”

Luca sits back and looks at Armie curiously, now choosing to disregard his overuse of expletives. “What do you mean, you acted it out in real life?”

“Every word, Luca,” Armie tells him. “Timmy was playing the Bach piece and changed it to Liszt, then Busoni—you know—,” his hand windmilling animatedly as he speaks, “—as Elio would. It’s fine because he _is_ playing Elio. But I’ve never even laid eyes on the fucking script, and there I was— delivering Oliver’s lines, like I _was_ Oliver. What the fuck?”

Luca falls silent.

“Please tell me you’ve got something to do with this—,” Armie pleads, “—and if you did, please stop screwing around?” he continues. “ _Please_?”

If Armie still has a heart, it would have sank on the floor the moment Luca delivers his reply.

“No, Armie. That wasn’t me,” Luca says. His tone is as solemn as the priest at Elizabeth’s funeral, two centuries ago.

“That was all _you._ ”

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, Armie is still waiting on the tumble wash cycle to end—his head lost in Aeschylus’s _The Libation Bearers_ —when Timmy quietly tiptoes into the laundry room, asking him if he’s free for dinner.

“I am,” he says, before shooting a glance at Timmy— clad in a pair of floral-print shorts and a Lacoste t-shirt. Armie could smell the sun and grass on him. _The marvels of being human,_ he muses pensively.

“See you upstairs?” Timmy asks, although his gaze is fixed towards the book that Armie is holding.

“The Greeks _really_ take their blood sacrifices seriously,” Armie jokes, referring to Agamemnon and his daughter. Timmy shakes his head fervently. “I’m probably very ignorant about Greek mythology.”

“I could summarize some of them for you, if you want,” Armie replies, as the washing machine continues to hum happily in the background. Timmy doesn’t budge, as he watches the pink suds filling up the glass windows of the washing machine in fascination. “I’ve read the novel and the script, by the way,” Armie finally admits.

It sounds like the very confession that Timmy wants to hear. “So now you know _,_ ” he says. Quiet, but steady.

“Now I _know,”_ Armie agrees. Timmy continues to gaze up at him with those dark, probing eyes— as if searching for answers that will never come, and it’s fucking unnerving. “Although—I don’t really know what this means,” he’s quick to clarify, crossing his arms defensively. “It’s strange. Never happened in 310 years of my undead life.”

“You can bet that it’s never happened in my twenty years of living too,” Timmy retorts. Armie couldn’t help but snicker. The kid’s got wit, he’ll give him that.

Silence befalls them again, but this time it’s filled with choking sounds from the washing machine that Armie’s not even sure it should be making.

“Man, that machine’s ancient,” Timmy comments. “I’ve only seen this model at my grandpa’s place, in France.”

“Wait—,” Armie narrows his eyes at Timmy. “You’re French?”

“Fancy name, remember?” Timmy replies with an exaggerated shrug. “Timo- _thay_ , Chala- _may?_ ”

“Ah.”

It’s Timmy’s turn to ask him with curious wonder— “Are you French too?”

“ _No—,”_ Armie does a double take at the seemingly random question, “—why did you ask?”

 “ _Armand_ —,” Timmy begins, “—sounds like a French name, _oui?_ ”

Armie couldn’t help but chuckle again – what a cursed name, he thinks. “It’s Russian, actually,” he explains, when Timmy stares at him as if he was offended. It’s been forever since Armie’s talked openly about his heritage to anyone – probably even since Luca. “Catherine the Great was in power, and her court at that time was heavily influenced by French customs and philosophy— until the French Revolution, obviously,” he ponders, “—at which point she began to reject most of the pillars of the Russian Enlightenment. I met Diderot too, actually, in St Petersburg. Accompanied him back to Paris. The Empress adored him.”

Timmy doesn’t blink.

“I wish you were my history teacher at high school,” was all he could say after Armie’s nostalgic monologue. “You’d be the coolest teacher ever.”

“Now you’re giving me bright ideas for a career change,” Armie says. “Someone once told me, that to teach feels like you’re a Guardian of Time itself,” he sighs. “Because that way, you’re protecting the future happiness of the world— via the minds that are yet to shape it.”

“Was it Luca?”

“Ten points to Slytherin,” Armie smiles wryly. Trust Timmy to get it right the first time. Timmy responds to this by picking up the Aeschylus, hanging loosely from the ends of Armie’s fingers. Traces the golden threads on the leather-bound cover with the edges of his bitten fingernails; a look of awe transparent on his face.

“I suppose, for centuries upon centuries I’ve lamented people who say that they feel old,” Armie says, causing Timmy to look up at him again; the movement abrupt. “But you see, it’s perfectly possible for anyone to feel old,” he shrugs. “All they need to do is become a teacher.”

Timmy is about to open his mouth for a retort when Luca’s voice calls them from upstairs, haranguing them for dinner. “Coming,” Armie yells, letting Luca know that he was not being ignored. Timmy shares a brief glance with Armie, before he begins to run up the stairs.

Halfway in his stride, he pauses—and says—

_“Later.”_

 

* * *

 

At dinner, it feels as if none of their conversation in the laundry room ever happened. Luca openly discusses his film, and the progress Timmy has made with his co-star since the latter’s arrival in Crema. “Garrett’s awesome,” Timmy says between chews, before downing his meal with apricot juice. “Went cycling this afternoon, showed him around town, you know,” he beams enthusiastically. “It’s going to be great.”

Armie lets Timmy and Luca fill the silence with their visions of the film, how Elio should act around Oliver, what it means to fall in love. He’s happy to be the bystander, the watcher on the wall, the silent witness. He enjoys seeing Luca at work, but above all, it’s a revelation to see Timmy with Luca, a young, sharp mind sparring with the old. Timmy is a bright, old soul.

He learns so much about Timmy by watching him talk to someone else—this much he knows from dinner last night, but now, there is no interruption – this is a maestro and his protégé at work. This is like watching Nureyev and Fonteyn dance. Like Ginger and Fred.

He learns that Timmy’s been acting since childhood – which explains his eloquence and articulateness – yet doesn’t quite explain the constancy of his self-deprecation. He learns that while Timmy’s father is French, his mother is half Russian-Jewish. He learns that Timmy was in _Homeland—_ (how did he miss that? _Homeland_ was one of his favourite shows) and now Armie has a reason to stay indoors to marathon the first season again.

Armie would have retired to bed if Luca hasn’t suddenly decided to watch a random film – _Alien,_ of all titles, as his Saturday night movie pick. As he rests on the floor, head propped up on a bunch of pillows, staring up at the wall whereupon the film is being projected; Timmy crawls over to lie beside him. A bag of popcorn in tow, separating the small distance between them.

Of course.

Timmy doesn’t even flinch at the infamous chestburster scene— a testament, perhaps, to how many times he’s actually seen this film. By the time the credit rolls, Timmy yawns and stretches his limbs leisurely– _gosh,_ Armie thinks, _he’s really lanky_ —and the popcorn isn’t even halfway finished.

“What’s up?” Timmy asks, when Armie continues to stare at the open bag of popcorn.

“Nah,” Armie sighs, watching Luca and his husband dismantling the projector from the corner of his eyes. “You must be tired,” he tells Timmy. “Go to sleep,” he says in a fake old-man’s voice, “—it’s past your bedtime, child.”

“Oh ancient one,” Timmy bows exaggeratedly, before setting the popcorn aside. A sly smirk painted on his face. “I think I saw two flashlights downstairs in the laundry room,” he says.

Armie blinks in confusion, before realization slowly hits him like gentle waves lapping at his feet. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks Timmy, who still hasn’t wiped that godawful smirk off his lips.

“I don’t know, are you?”

“I hate you so much,” Armie shakes his head in disbelief, before Timmy expediently stands up and shrieks, “Race you!”

“Wait,” Armie says to a shadow long gone, “—race you to _where?_ ”

 

* * *

 

It turns out that the place Timmy wishes to show him is a creek, a good few miles from the main square, where he is due to be shooting a scene with Garrett in a few weeks’ time.

“It’s serene,” Armie says. He could see the reflection of half-moonlight across the lake, and then—

“Fireflies,” Timmy whispers, pointing to a grassy knoll about a few yards away. Armie nearly gasps at the sight of the sparkly little things, floating in the air like magic. A toad croaks obnoxiously from somewhere that he couldn’t see, but even that hasn’t spoiled his mood. In fact, if anything, it gives life to the tableau he’s beholding. “I figured this out a few nights ago,” Timmy says, drawing closer to the waters. “It’s not something that they’ll be able to capture on film, considering the scene will be shot in daylight.”

Armie follows him into the dark waters, but not getting any closer to the fireflies.

“ _Grave of the Fireflies_ ,” Armie says suddenly, recalling the Studio Ghibli film. “Have you seen it?”

“Don’t talk to me about _Grave of the Fireflies_ ,” Timmy warns. “My sister and I cried for days after watching it the first time, and even the mere mention of it is enough to cause tears.”

“Sorry,” Armie says sheepishly, before flashing his light at Timmy’s face.

“God, it’s freezing in here,” Timmy shivers, as he splashes his feet around in the water. They paddle around in the creek for a few minutes, flashing lights at each other – _like lighthouses,_ Armie thinks, signalling ships home—when suddenly Timmy lets out a loud cry.

“Ouch. Fuck. Owwww!”

“Timmy?”

“Ouuuuuch,” Timmy lifts his foot up from the water, where Armie is shining his flashlight attentively. “Is that a—,” Timmy says, scrunching his nose, looking at the tiny black thing latching onto his skin without being able to say the word—

“Leech?” Armie offers, as he bends down to have a closer inspection. “Yes,” he confirms, “—it’s a leech.”

“Fuckity fuck,” Timmy says, before attempting to scramble out from the lake, leech still attached to the front of his leg. It’s the first time that Armie’s heard him swear so many times in a row, but given the circumstances, he thinks it’s fair.

“Ironic, this. Leeches,” Timmy hisses. “He’s your friend, isn’t he? Bloodsuckers, and all that jazz?” he jokes as Armie attempts to flick the damned thing off his leg.

“There—,” Armie says, before throwing the poor leech back into the waters. Blood continues to stream down Timmy’s shin— and Armie, being a gentleman vampire that he is, steps away as far as he could from Timmy. As if he’s a voyeur who has seen something he shouldn’t.

Timmy looks as though he has been rejected, like he’s been infected with the plague. But this, Armie thinks, is probably for the best. He’s been good so far. He’s done nothing wrong. Just taken a leech off Timmy’s skin, nothing more, right? Armie doesn’t want to take advantage of Timmy now, after all he’s done.

“I would let you— you know?” Timmy says, wiping the blood off his shin with the pads of his fingers, but it continues to flow from where the leech has latched on his skin.

“What?” Armie asks—although he knows very well what Timmy was alluding to.  

Timmy’s shoulders sag as he looks up at Armie, before gesturing down to his shin with his a tilt of his head. The gesture was simple. Soundless, even.

But one gesture meant everything.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Armie says, which earns him an epic eye-roll from Timmy. “You’re overreacting,” Timmy chides him. “I suppose it’s not going to stop bleeding unless I keep some pressure on it, but I was hoping that you could speed things up a bit,” he says. When Armie continues to hesitate, Timmy says, “Come on, brother. I trust you.”

Resigned to his fate, Armie steps closer towards Timmy and leans down, before sucking gently at the patch of bleeding skin – tasting the sweet blood of youth – but not more than what he thinks is needed. How long has it been since he last tasted pure, warm, human blood, tinged with salt and sweat?  He couldn’t remember, and yet—how could he have not missed this? Timmy tastes _lovely,_ but perhaps it’s only because it has been too long. Some poet somewhere would probably say that it tastes like fine wine. Stephanie Meyer would probably say that it tastes like chocolates, or—god forbid, his personal brand of heroin. Or was she talking about Bella’s scent?

Nevertheless, to make comparisons would be asinine. To make comparisons would reduce Timmy’s worth to nothingness.

Timmy is more than just that, _da?_

He’s incomparable.

A lap of the tongue, a gentle pressure of his teeth—and Armie struggles not to draw out his fangs. He could have easily done it, get his fangs out and hurt Timmy—but maybe Luca is right. Maybe he does have enough self-restraint to stop himself. After he is certain that the blood flow has stopped, he gingerly pulls away from Timmy, as if Timmy’s a porcelain doll that needs to be handled gracefully.

“Probably will need to patch that up,” Armie says, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket – only too conveniently, perhaps, that he carries his initialled handkerchief around like he’s some kind of some Russian dandy – before tying it tightly around Timmy’s leg.

“Thanks,” Timmy says, almost dreamily. He hasn’t moved a muscle since Armie bent down in front of him, studying him intently like some exotic specimen. “Couldn’t see any fangs, though. You didn’t use your fangs, did you?”

Armie stutters at Timmy’s sharp observation. “I didn’t—,” he says, “—I _shouldn’t_ ,” Armie corrects himself. “It’s not needed, you see.”

Timmy looks at him oddly, like he couldn’t understand Armie’s logic at all. “Like I said—,” he smiles wryly—more to sooth himself rather than Armie, perhaps, “—you could, you know? Feed on me?” he offers. “If you want.”

“I know _myself—,”_ Armie starts, before he realizes what he has done. When the words come from his mind and his tongue has no filter. Reciting Oliver’s lines, when he hasn’t meant to.

_I know myself. If I have one, I’ll have two. And then I won’t be able to stop._

Timmy stares at him, stunned.

“Are you sure you really don’t know what’s going on, Armie?” he asks, voice trembling. Tinged with trepidation, but mixed with fascination.

Armie lowers his gaze at the knot he’s made with his handkerchief, tied neatly around Timmy’s ankle. “If I knew, this would be a whole lot easier,” he says wistfully, before offering his arm to help Timmy get up from the ground. “We should head back. I don’t want Luca to worry.”

Timmy grabs at his arm firmly and hoists himself up, silently nodding in acknowledgment.

Climbing clumsily onto their bicycles, they ride off into the dark—like nothing has ever happened.

 

\--

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Randomly chose Garrett Hedlund as a replacement for Oliver, although it wasn't really made explicit in the fic. 
> 
> I'm also slowly building a Spotify playlist specifically for this fic, but in the meantime, have a general Armie/Timmy friendship playlist, here:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/incendiarywit/playlist/0lmUZKlKTle4ta1ULfnZEy


	4. Chapter 4

Armie wakes up with a thumping headache— one that he hasn’t had in forever; not even while he was alive. And that was a good few centuries ago. The hangover from last night was different from this. This is like a buzz in his head that he couldn’t comprehend; a pain in his neck that he couldn’t quite crack. An itch he couldn’t quite scratch. White noise that gets louder and louder and he couldn’t simply switch it off like his phone, or the TV, or his wireless broadband.

Luca attempts to cure him by feeding him goblet after goblet of O-neg, but to no avail.

It’s fucking annoying—and now, it’s come to a point where it’s beginning to worry him.

“I don’t have a brain tumour,” Armie groans, rubbing at his temples, “—do I?” he asks. “Can vampires have brain tumours?”

Luca picks up the third goblet and hands him another, which Armie drains in one go. “Has anything out of the ordinary happen?”

“No, not really,” Armie frowns. He’s not about to talk about last night—there was nothing out of the ordinary there, right?

Luca peers at him suspiciously, before padding away like a silent leopard. His hair sticks out in every direction— perhaps a testament to the mad genius that he is.

Sometimes Armie is utterly grateful that Luca doesn’t interrogate him like his real father had, when he was growing up, back in Petersburg.

It’s nicer this way.

 

* * *

 

His headache somehow recedes later that night, at the dinner table. It was the first day of shooting, and Armie hasn’t seen Timmy the entire day since last night. Even now it feels like Timmy is purposefully ignoring him. Timmy is blissfully chatting away with Garrett, about the progress of their first day, which from the sounds of it has been massively successful if not for the endless deluge that has disrupted the mood they were trying to capture. Lazy summers and warm sunshine, and all that? Goes out into the drain, just like the rainfall that has decided to descend upon Crema today.

It doesn’t appear to Armie that either Garrett or Stuhlbarg, who is playing Timmy’s dad in the film, are aware of Luca and Armie’s true nature. There’s something about Garrett that nags at him—maybe the very fact that they’re almost similar in height and looks. Blond, blue-eyed, traditionally handsome.

It’s like gazing into a mirror, finding his reflection and hating himself.

It’s disconcerting.

Probably what’s more disconcerting is how much he wants to talk to Timmy and praise him. He’s not had the chance to rewatch _Homeland,_ but he’s seen what few clips of him on YouTube, and he really wishes he could ask Timmy what the deal is with that statistics rapping video. He’s seen the _Miss Stevens_ monologue from _Death of a Salesman_ , and he thoroughly agrees with the New York Times columnist who wrote that Timmy reminds him of James Dean.

And that’s high praise, considering Armie’s met James Dean, pre- _East of Eden_.

“How’s your leg?” Armie asks briskly, when he is eventually able to sidle up to Timmy a few hours later.

“It’s fine,” Timmy replies, crossing his leg and rubbing at the sore spot. “That’s what the makeup department is for right?” he says before grinning madly—all teeth and sunny disposition.

Armie nods before looking to his right, where Garrett and Luca are chatting vigorously. They are now deep in conversation about the film script, before Garrett surprises Armie by briefly chancing a glance at him—curious, almost. He acknowledges Garrett by nodding courteously in return.

Frowning, Armie turns to face Timmy.

“So—,” he prefaces awkwardly, “—first day of shooting, huh?”

“Yup,” Timmy’s grin widens. “Just came back from Garrett’s place before dinner, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Watched some cartoons. _My Neighbour Totoro,_ to be precise.”

“The double side of _Grave of the Fireflies,_ ” Armie remarks glibly. “ _Nice,”_ he adds—a little bit too scornfully, perhaps. It feels as if Timmy was trying to rebel against him, or something, by watching _Totoro_ instead of _Fireflies._

But perhaps it was nothing.

Maybe it’s just Armie overthinking things.

“He’s a damned good looking guy, isn’t he?” Armie says, tilting his head in Garrett’s general direction, before he could stop himself.

Timmy snorts. “Who? Garrett?”

Armie replies by giving him a ‘duh, who else’ look.

“Have you read _A Little Life?_ ” Timmy asks, instead. A left-field question that completely throws Armie off-balance.

“That massive tearjerker?” Armie furrows his brows. “I thought you wouldn’t have enjoyed that sort of thing.”

“It’s set in New York. Of course I have to read it,” Timmy rolls his eyes. “The point is—,” he sighs, “Garrett is like Willem in real life. The whole Scandinavian background, raised on a cattle farm somewhere in Minnesota, waiting tables to pay rent…it’s uncanny,” Timmy adds musingly. “I was apprehensive about this whole thing, before I came here, you know.  But everyone’s been so kind. Garrett and Michael—,” he pauses, “I know it’s early days and by the end of this they’ll probably get sick of my face, but I have a feeling that we’re all doing something special.”

Armie listens to all of this attentively, and realizes that Timmy isn’t just saying the words for the sake of it. He really feels it. And it shows on his face, with no reservations.

“You really like him, huh?” Armie nudges Timmy’s shoulder, as Garrett makes his preparations to leave.

A brief flicker of uneasiness crosses Timmy’s face. “That’s my flaw, I suppose,” he says. “It’s very difficult for me not to find something I like, even in something I’m supposed to hate.”

At this statement, Armie decides to lower his gaze at Timmy’s foot. “How’s your leg?” he inanely asks— _again._

“You’ve already asked that,” Timmy looks at him curiously.

“Yeah,” Armie scratches the back of his head, while silently admonishing himself at the same time. He’s really getting old, now—and he could really feel it in his bones. The fog in his head.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, before conveniently changing the subject. “I saw _Miss Stevens_ , by the way,” Armie says, and proceeds to tell Timmy how much he agrees with the James Dean comment by the NYT reviewer.

Timmy looks as though he could sink into the floor at that very moment, just by listening to high praise coming from Armie. “This is so funny though,” he says, blushing madly.

“Why would you say that?”

“Okay, okay,” Timmy holds his hands up in surrender, “—don’t get mad at me, okay?”

Armie looks around in panic. “What? Why?”

“I showed your picture to my sister –,” Timmy begins, before Armie widens his eyes in horror. “Come on, don’t pull that face—,” Timmy reassures him. “Pauline’s a vampire too, so she’s pretty well-versed with your vampire rules,” he says, although Armie would agree to disagree. “The point is,” Timmy leans forward conspiratorially, “—she says that you give off a strong Paul Newman vibe.”

He doesn’t quite really see the resemblance, but it’s nice to be complimented, he supposes. “Speaking of Paul Newman,” Armie says, “—have you seen _Cool Hand Luke_?”

Timmy shakes his head, causing Armie to gasp dramatically. “You haven’t? Man, you have to!” Get Luca to do a Saturday screening of the film!” he shrieks enthusiastically, while Timmy nods and says that he will do that, _pronto._

Then, a pause.

The comforts of being comfortable with someone; that one doesn’t need words to fill up the silence. Timmy seems to be contemplating something, because he is frowning, staring intently at the curved leg of Luca’s dining table.

“You’re thinking,” Armie says, breaking the silence.Timmy looks up at him as if he’s about to say something important.  

“You’ve read the book, right?” he asks, instead. “And the screenplay?”

“Uh-huh,” Armie nods.

“And you know how they often jokingly compare Oliver to a movie star?”

“Uh- _huuu-uh._ ”

“I still find it so interesting that Pauline said you give off more of a movie star vibe than Garrett does.”

_Huh._

It takes Armie several seconds to process that statement, before he replies with something inane, like—“That’s impossible.”

“Why do you say that?” Timmy asks.

“Because Garrett is _the_ movie star,” Armie explains, “—and I’m just a decrepit three hundred year old curmudgeonly vampire.”

Timmy _tsked_ , as if he would gladly argue against the motion. “Well,” he begins, sitting up straighter against the chair as if to prove a point. “He is _a_ movie star, but I suppose he doesn’t give off that old Hollywood movie star vibe as much as you do,” Timmy theorizes. “Maybe because you lived and breathed it. Because you were there,” he sighs, before lifting his gaze up and stares straight into Armie’s eyes.

“Because,” he says, “—you’ve seen it all.”

 

* * *

 

Garrett and Michael are in the process of leaving Luca’s palazzo, and handshakes and hugs are all around. Garrett makes a passing comment about Armie’s work – “I’ve heard about that screenplay you wrote. It was in last year’s Black List, wasn’t it?”

Armie could only smile and nod.

“I’d be honoured to be part of a film that you’ve written,” Garrett says thoughtfully, his handshake firm and full of hope. Perhaps Armie can see why Timmy likes him so much. The self-deference, mixed with self-confidence, an equanimity—a sense of balance. His natural ingenuity.

Armie definitely could see him as Willem, in _A Little Life_ —

Armie definitely could see him as Oliver.

 

* * *

 

Once Michael and Garrett have driven off into the night, Armie’s lack of impulse control decides to take over the best part of his limited conversations with Timmy. He splutters the question without even considering the consequences.

“When you asked me to feed on you,” he begins, “–have you made the same offer to anyone else?”

Timmy blinks rapidly, shock transparent on his face. “God, no. I would never.”

It’s Armie’s turn to be taken aback. “Wait. So why me?”

“I don’t know—it’s like—there’s so much sorrow in you, or something. The same kind of sorrow I see in my sister when she was first turned,” Timmy explains, before picking up sheets of paper from a side table. A simple movement, yet elegant. “Well—,” he pauses briefly, “—I lied when I said I never made an offer to anyone else, because I did ask if my sister would feed on me.”

Armie is puzzled. “Why would you do that?”

Timmy screws his eyes shut, and grimaces. “I thought it was like, a blood transfusion or something. Donating a kidney or a part of your liver. I just wanted to help, I guess,” he sighs. “Obviously she declined the offer.”

“You must really love your sister, huh?” Armie says, before picking up his own Aeschylus from the dinner table. He’s finished _The Libation Bearers_ and is moving onto _The Eumenides._ Timmy, meanwhile, is still holding onto those pieces of papers that now appears to be the first edition of Diderot’s essay – _Paradox of the Actor,_ in its original French, dated 1873.

_Paradoxe sur le Comedien._

Obviously.

It was one of the first few works of Diderot’s that Armie had read; which cemented his love for acting. The mere philosophy, the contradictory nature of _acting_ fascinates him. And here Timmy has instinctively picked the very same essay, two centuries later.

How apt.

“I do love my sister,” Timmy confesses wholeheartedly. “No matter what Pauline is, I’ll still love her,” he says, before a ridiculous idea crosses his mind. Armie knows this, because it shows on the sudden mischievous grin Timmy wears on his face. “You should meet her, someday,” he says brightly. “Get you both on a vampire date, or something. I could be your matchmaker.”

“What?”Armie jerks his head back in horror.

“I’m just kidding,” Timmy flails his hands apologetically, flapping the sheets of paper in the air— fanning Armie’s face with Diderot’s essay. “Just kidding!”

 _This kid,_ Armie thinks, _he’s going to be the death of me._

But really, to be honest?

It’s fucking endearing.

 

* * *

 

The headache returns gradually, as the hours roll by through the night.

Armie has meant to try and finish _The Eumenides_ and move on to rereading _A Little Life,_ now that Timmy has kindly mentioned the novel again—but it has come to a point where the words are all blurring into one. He begins to wonder if he needs prescription glasses, before he realizes that he shouldn’t have needed glasses in the first place.

He runs a hand through his hair, pulling them at the roots as if the sharp, jerky movements would relieve the tension headache, but to no avail. He sits up and opens his laptop instead, fingers hovering on the keyboard – before typing Timmy’s name into YouTube.

The light from the screen should have worsened his headache, but as if by miracle, Timmy’s little rap about statistics makes it much, much better.

It still doesn’t completely go away, though.

 _Shame,_ Armie thinks.

He really thought he’s cracked this one.

 

* * *

 

Armie continues to ferment in a perpetual bad mood as the nights wear on, but he does notice some kind of pattern. That it’s worse during the day when he is trying to sleep – fading significantly when he wakes, especially towards dinner time, and gradually building up to a crescendo after dinner. It is heightened at dawn, especially when he is by himself.

Maybe it is psychological, driven by loneliness – but it doesn’t explain why he still nurses such relentless aches and pains while Luca is around.

Some nights he doesn’t notice them at all, especially at weekends. Luca played a double feature of Paul Newman’s films last Saturday – _Cool Hand Luke_ and _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_ , with Timmy quietly munching popcorn by his side.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days, he’s learnt so much more about Timmy, through quiet conversations in the piano room, or in Luca’s study, or in the sitting room. He finally finds out that the rap video on YouTube was part of a stats coursework that Timmy had to submit for his maths class, and he learns that Timmy loves rap music. Timmy hands him a list of musicians he should listen to—and most of them he’s never even heard of before.

He learns that Timmy loves dancing—one thing that Armie positively loathes, even from his time waltzing at the Russian Imperial Court. Armie identifies strongly with Mr Darcy from _Pride and Prejudice_ when Lizzy asks, “Do you dance, Mr Darcy?”

_Not if I can help it._

It’s something that Liz – his own Lizzy, his lovely, _lovely_ Elizabeth— has constantly teased him about.

The memories come flooding back, like crashing waves.

It hurts like hell.

And yet, Armie decides to join the production crew a few nights later, while they are preparing to shoot the dancing scene in the 1980s club. Luca is there, too, basking in the fluorescent lights. Everything feels authentically 80s – it feels, smells and tastes like that decade, way back when he was still sporting a mullet (regrettably), was obsessed with Jane Fonda aerobic exercise VCRs (secretly), as long as no one sees him flailing about on his own— and the Berlin Wall, which has still yet to fall.

His headache has magically been cured – at least at this hour, and he’s just waiting for it to return at some point during the night. Garrett walks over and they strike a conversation about horses, of all things – and whatever that has been nagging Armie about Garrett dies away too, as their conversation livens up.

It’s clear, though, of how everyone in this crew respects each other. How Garrett respects Timmy—cares for him, adores him, even. It’s not hard when one is sequestered in this quaint, intimate town. So far removed from the glitz and glamour—and _fallacy_ —of Hollywood.

There is only _truth_ here.

And the truth that Armie sees in Garrett’s eyes right now, is that he probably loves Timmy.

But who wouldn’t?

 

* * *

 

They’re doing another take of the scene when Oliver is dancing in total abandon – and Elio, filled with jealousy, slides onto the dancefloor aloofly. Pretending he doesn’t care, when in truth he cares _too much._

It’s painful to watch, really, when the technician turns down the music volume—they all could have looked like idiots out there on the dancefloor, dancing to nothing. But Timmy continues moving like he has music in his blood, in his heart, in his soul.

Armie envies him for that.

 

* * *

 

It’s four am and dawn is yet to break.

It’s a wrap for the day and Timmy is still catching up with Garrett over a good day’s work. Armie is about to cycle home when he hears Timmy yell his name, all the way from the dance floor.

“Hey, wait up,” Timmy says, running up to him breathlessly. “Why do you have to disappear so fast?”

Armie points up to the skies. “Dawn’s in a few hours, buddy.”

Timmy merely twists his lips, blinking up at Armie in consideration, before looking at his digital watch— _Elio’s_ digital watch. He’s got that thinking look again, Armie surmises.

“There’s time yet,” Timmy says blithely. “I wanna show you something.”

“No flashlights required?”

“No flashlights,” Timmy shakes his head.

“No leeches lurking around?”

“Definitely no leeches.”

“Let’s go, then,” Armie grins back.

 

* * *

 

Timmy leads him to the centre of the town—the Cathedral in view, before parking his bike against the railings surrounding the war monument in the middle of the square. “We’ll be shooting the confession scene here in a couple of days,” he announces to nobody in particular, looking up at the bronze statue in front of him.

Armie narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Are you about to confess something to me, Little Timmy Tim?” he asks, in a joking tone.

Timmy snorts. “Fuck you,” he says, but he doesn’t seem to be angry. He begins to walk around the memorial, pads of his fingers touching every metal rail along the way, moving anti-clockwise around the square. Armie begins to walk away from Timmy, in the opposite direction.

“Do you think it’s fair? How vampires are represented in modern literature?” Timmy asks thoughtfully, after a few steps forward. “In the media?”

“Depends,” Armie replies laconically, as he keeps walking forward, looking straight at Timmy on the other end of the fenced square. “In what sense are you talking about?”

“What is it about vampires that are so—I don’t know, alluring?” Timmy wonders out loud. He’s skipping now, Armie notes in fascination. He scrunches his nose and pauses in his stride. “Do you mean, sexually charged?”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “You were the one who came up with sexually charged, brother.”

“Now—,” Armie ponders, “—it’s firmly embedded in pop culture, isn’t it? Creature of the night equals sex, orgies, all that stuff.”

Timmy takes another few steps – and soon they’re standing face to face on the opposite end of the square. “I take it that it’s nothing like that?”

“It could be like that, if you’re into that kind of stuff,” Armie explains. “For me it’s just really messy. Blood everywhere,” he gestures with his hands to depict the carnage that he could potentially incur, before sighing loudly. “One year, I spent thousands of dollars on fabric detergent and floor cleaning agents alone.”

Timmy crosses his arms, before challenging Armie directly. “But if it’s such hard work, why don’t you just have—like, maybe a human— that you could feed on?”

 _Fair question,_ Armie thinks. “Back then we had serfs for these sorts of things, but I’ve sworn to myself not to lower myself to that level again,” he explains. “Besides, if you’re talking consensual feeding, it’s a very intimate thing. Letting someone near your neck and trusting them not to drain you empty, and also not to turn you?” he raises an eyebrow theatrically, “—that’s another level of trust exercise, Timmy buddy.”

The expression Timmy wears now is pensive, like there’s something he wants to say but you know he’s trying hard to contain it.

“You’re thinking,” Armie says pointedly. “I can hear you thinking.”

Timmy sighs heavily, before finally opening up. “It’s the same kind of thing, I suppose. With this character. With Elio and Oliver,” he tells Armie. “I’m supposed to really open up, really let go.”

Armie purses his lips considerately. “Surely your dance partner will help you through it?”

Timmy shakes his head, almost broodingly. “He’s not the problem,” he insists. “Garrett’s perfect.”

“So, what’s the problem?”Armie asks. “Something’s bothering you.”     

There is a brief hesitation, before Timmy finally says in a half-whisper— “The peach scene.”

“Ahh,” Armie bellows loudly, “—the peach scene!” he exclaims, making sure that his voice echoes through the morning air.  

Timmy suddenly launches at him and throws a firm punch in his gut, causing Armie to double back in equal measures of pain and laughter. “You’re incorrigible!” Timmy shrieks. It takes a good few moments before Armie is able to stand back up again. If he could cry from laughter, he would.

“I suppose,” he says in all seriousness, “—the whole point of that scene is to let someone see you at your most vulnerable.”

“That’s what Elio and Oliver does with each other, right? To see and be seen?”

Armie considers this, before he throws his own two cents. “Except—you don’t really know what Oliver’s thinking, because the book is all written from Elio’s perspective, right?” he says. “And he’s an unreliable, emotionally charged narrator.”

Timmy shakes his head and kicks a pebble off the ground. “It’s funny you say that, really.”

“Why?”

“Because—with Garrett,” Timmy begins, “—I can totally see what he’s thinking. With you, it’s completely blank.”

“Hmm—,” Armie hums. He doesn’t really know how to reply to that. And before he could come up with any witty remark, Timmy sends him another blow.  

“If you weren’t a vampire,” he hypothesises, “—if you were a normal human being, living in modern times. Here. Now,” he gestures with the edge of one palm against the flat of the other. “What do you think your life would be like?”

“I’d probably have a wife,” Armie professes unwaveringly. “Her name would be Elizabeth. We’d have two kids. A girl and a boy,” he muses. “I’d name my daughter Harper. My son would be called Ford. Don’t ask why, though. It came to me in a dream once.”

Timmy smiles.  

 _“I have been in love only once in my life. I suppose that makes me a romantic, in a sense. The idea that you have one true love, that no one else will compare after they have gone. It's a sweet idea, but the reality is terror itself. To be faced with all those lonely years after. To exist when the point of you has gone,”_ Armie soliloquies. 

“That’s deep,” Timmy says.

“It’s a quote from a book,” Armie says. “But in all seriousness, though—I would probably still be an actor. If I could choose.”

“You would be a great actor.”

Armie tilts his head to look at Timmy quizzically. “How would you know that?”

“It’s not just because you’re stunningly good looking, you know. I’m sure you get that all the time. There’s something else. Something _here,_ ” Timmy points to Armie’s heart. “Something that other people can’t see, or choose not to see. Because all they see is _this_ ,” he gestures dramatically to Armie’s face, with his hands. “There’s something _here,_ too,” pointing to Armie’s head. “You say that I’m always thinking, but you—you’re worse than me. Always thinking, thinking, _thinking—_ ,” Timmy says, “—you’re just as wise as Luca, even if you can’t see it yet.”

“And yet, there’s so much to learn from you,” Armie replies, without being quite able to look at Timmy. And there is a familiar feeling that is lurching in his stomach, in his throat—a lump, a ball of emotions that he doesn’t realize he still has.

Timmy couldn’t quite see this, though. Not yet. “What are you talking about, dude?” he asks boldly. “There’s so much to learn from _you,”_ he declares. “You know—,” Timmy says, “—when I saw this war memorial the first time, I immediately thought of you. Because you’ve seen a lot of things. You _know_ a lot of things.”

“Not things that matter,” Armie blurts without thinking.

“What things?” Timmy asks, similarly callous in demeanour.

_Fuck._

This is Oliver and Elio, Armie realizes – only their roles are reversed.

He suddenly feels asphyxiated, as if there is a lack of air when he knows damned well he doesn’t need to breathe. He changes the subject inelegantly, and he knows that Timmy recognized it, because he’s moving back towards his bicycle, as if he couldn’t wait to head back home. 

“I wasn’t at Piave specifically during World War I,” Armie says, as he returns to his own bike. “War time is awful—and yet, we reap so much from it. The bloodshed,” he reminisces, “—it’s so easy to get fed. I don’t like the person I was during those times. I was— _heartless_.”

Timmy stays silent, as if something in the conversation has triggered him. As if he realizes that it isn’t normal for people to embody fictional characters in real life, because this shouldn’t be happening. “It’s late,” he says croakily. “We gotta get back.”

Armie nods and climbs on his bike awkwardly. Timmy cycles away from him— and Armie lets him go wistfully, until Timmy is nearly out of his sight. He’s never been out this late, this close to daybreak. He would have loved to stay here, in this square, underneath this scarlet sky—for a little while longer.

_Until—_

The headache gradually builds up again, like a solid pressure in his brain. Bloodbuzz in his ears. He feels a dire need to lie down on the tarmac, but he knows if he stays here any longer, the sun will eat him alive. He begins to mount his bike unsteadily and rides away, following Timmy’s trail. Speeding faster until he could catch up.

And it is at this very moment— that everything clicks.

He’s been such a fucking idiot.

All this while he’s never realized, because he’s never had a moment alone with Timmy since that night at the creek.

Since he drank a few drops of Timmy’s blood.

The headache gradually recedes as he cycles closer towards Timmy, who is now waiting for him by one of the road signs. A smug expression is etched on his face. “Come on, old man,” he grins impishly.  “Don’t tell me that I’m too fast for ya.”

He’s merely one arm length away and the headache is almost completely gone. Timmy’s expression changes from a mischievous smile to thin-lipped frown that is full of concern. “Hey, brother. You alright?”

Armie couldn’t possibly vocalize his thoughts, his feelings. It’s as if every word has been Hoovered out of his mind by this sudden revelation that he couldn’t quite process. He reaches out—and places one hand firmly on Timmy’s shoulder, to balance himself.

And gosh, it feels so fucking blissful.

The noise, the hurt, the pain – everything— is gone; every single burden has been lifted off his shoulders. As if all this while he’s been walking in a fog, and it’s only _now_ that he’s able to see a clear path.

“Fuck, Armie,” Timmy says, grabbing at his hand and holds it tight. “You look awful.”

“I’m fine,” Armie lies through his teeth. “Never been out this long,” he grins toothily—and perhaps, too forcefully.

“Come on,” he says, and pulls his hand away from Timmy’s. He mounts his bike and begins to ride away again, in the direction of Luca’s palazzo. His head begins to feel like it is about to split open again, with every distance that he pulls away from Timmy.

 _Fuck me,_ he thinks, as he screws his eyes shut in pain.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

 

* * *

 

“Luca—,” he barges into the older vampire’s study at 7 am the next morning, “—I’m in deep shit.”

“And in what type of faecal matter have you been frolicking about, Armand?” Luca replies monotonously.

Armie grabs a chair and sits face-to-face opposite Luca, inches apart. Eye-to-eye. Because this is fucking important, and he will not let Luca get away with cryptic answers this time.

“It’s Timmy,” Armie says gruffly.

Luca sighs.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me!” Armie exclaims, all the anger that has been pent up coming to the fore. It doesn’t help that this headache is coming at full force, knowing that Timmy has left the villa for another rigorous shooting day. “When you asked me to come here, what was it really that you had in mind, Luca?”

Luca merely sighs harder.

“I have to admit,” Luca says, “—that when James first sent me the script for this film, the first thing I thought about was how perfect you would be as Oliver.”

“And…?”

“That’s all there is to it,” Luca shrugs. “You and I both know that it will never happen, because of our— _predicament.”_

Armie clenches his jaw and cracks his knuckles, before gripping the sides of his chair tighter – to stop himself from punching Luca in the face or punching himself, he will never know.

“Garrett is good—and we’re glad that we found him, you know?” Luca continues. “He’s the most perfect Oliver we could find, but he’s not _you._ ”

“But I’m _not_ Oliver,” Armie insists belligerently. “I shouldn’t be reciting his lines if I’m not him.”

“No, you’re not Oliver,” Luca agrees. “You’re _you_ —but clearly there’s something about Oliver that resonates with you, whether you consciously know it or not.” From his tone, Armie senses that there is no reason for Luca to lie – that this isn’t some cheap vampiric manipulation on his part.

Still, nothing makes fucking sense.

“Now,” says Luca, when Armie has considerably calmed down. “Tell me about Timmy.”

So Armie does.

 

* * *

 

“In all of my years of being a vampire, I’ve never seen this happen in real life,” Luca says, rubbing his eyes tiredly after listening to Armie’s conundrum.

“You mean you’ve heard of it?”

“It’s a myth,” Luca flaps his hand dismissively. “It’s never happened.”

Armie snorts drily. “Yeah, like we’re not supposed to exist either— because _we’re_ a myth too, right?”

“I don’t know,” Luca says, much to Armie’s frustration. “I’ll have to look into it,” he shrugs, before standing up to leave.

“But what about the headaches?”

“Just deal with it the best way you can,” Luca says apologetically, before heading into his bedroom for his daily siesta. “Just—keep Timmy close,” he adds, with an air of finality. “Don’t push him away. It’ll only end up hurting you both.”

 

* * *

 

Despite Luca’s cryptic advice, Armie’s response to this is to push Timmy away. Maybe Timmy senses it too, because it seems that he begins to spend more time at Garrett’s place, even staying overnight there sometimes – to the detriment of Armie’s physical state. Probably Armie is doing this as penance for letting himself fall into the trap of tasting blood in the first place, on that night at the creek.

It’s so fucking unfair.

He was only trying to be helpful.

_Friendly._

This, he thinks, is why making friends is such a pain in the ass.

 _Don’t get attached don’t get attached don’t get attached don’t get attached,_ he thinks.

And yet, he _is_ becoming too attached, no matter how hard he tries to pull away. Because the universe has forced him to become attached. Luca tells him that this is one of the indications that a vampire has found their soulmate—which in itself is a rare occurrence. It is an idea that Armie has openly scoffed at.

Because vampires aren’t supposed to have hearts, let alone _souls._

Armie is as empty as emptiness gets.

A _Void._

Then Timmy comes along, and it’s all _Chaos._

He doesn’t like the way it makes him feel—because it makes him feel like he is being unfaithful to Elizabeth. Which is ridiculous, because he knows for sure that Elizabeth would have loved Timmy.

 _No,_ she would have fallen _in love with_ Timmy— in the way that _everyone_ and _everything_ around him seems to be falling in love with Timmy. He doesn’t blame Garrett if he falls in love with Timmy too—even the buildings, the walls, the doors of cathedrals and shops and houses; the skies, the earth, the waters – they all seem to love Timmy, because Timmy loves them too.

 _“And so I try to be kind to everything I see, and in everything I see, I see him,”_ Hanya Yanagihara writes in _A Little Life._ Maybe that is what this is— this friendship that Luca talks about, that he wants to see Armie build with Timmy. This friendship that Timmy has offered to him when he opened that door, to welcome Armie home, many nights ago. To not fear him. To be treated as though he isn’t a monstrous creature. To be treated as a friend, and to be a friend—without Armie needing to feel like he’s merely playing a part, to cheat, to _act._

To be allowed to be himself.

This is the immeasurable kindness that Timmy bestows upon everything, including Armie.

Because Armie walks around Crema now, at night, alone—and sees the buildings, the walls, the doors of cathedrals and shops and houses; the skies, the earth, the waters.

And in everything he sees, he sees Timmy.

 

* * *

 

He returns home from an impromptu trip to Antonio’s pig farm, the first time in a fortnight. He hasn’t been the least surprised to recognize how his headache seems to dissipate with every step he takes towards Luca’s doorstep— Timmy must be home, then, Armie thinks, before pushing the door open. The wood creaks gently, as he pads softly inside the palazzo—

Where Timmy is waiting for him behind the door.

Like a patient, sleepless eremite.

 

\--

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

“God, you look awful,” Timmy says, frozen at the sight of Armie.

Armie _knows_ he looks awful—it’s the Understatement of the Year. He has blood all over his face, his hands, his clothes – and Timmy should have been _scared_ of him. _This is who I am,_ he wants to scream. He’s not Oliver the Usurper, the object of Elio’s desires.

He’s a fucking vampire.

 _Fear me,_ he wants to say.

But Timmy continues to stand there, defiantly.

_Indefatigable._

“I know that you’re unwell,” Timmy whispers—his voice a soft melody against the beat of the clock.

Ticking, ticking, _ticking._

“You know everything, don’t you?” Armie whispers in return, though he doesn’t know why he has to. It’s not like Luca will hear them from his bedroom. Armie knows, though, that he’s shoved his hands inside the pockets of his trench coat to stop himself from reaching out to Timmy.

He knows he looks awful, and he knows what the cure is. But he couldn’t bring himself to taint Timmy. Not like this.

Especially _not_ because of this.

“Not the things that matter,” Timmy replies, oblivious to the countless wicked thoughts running through Armie’s brains. 

“Don’t do this,” Armie groans. He could already see where this is going, and it scares him.

“I _am_ doing it--,” Timmy persists, standing his ground against someone who could easily overpower him with his might and wit. He inches closer towards Armie, and looks up at him from under his eyelashes. “So deal with it,” Timmy says boldly, but not unkindly.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I thought you should know,” Timmy says—his voice cracking as he does.

Armie could only watch him in silence.  

In response, Timmy reaches up to touch Armie’s bloodstained collar, before tentatively withdrawing his hand. “I don’t really know what’s going on,” he begins, “—but this shit’s fucking weird, right? I asked Luca about it and he was shifty as hell, and I immediately knew something’s wrong because Luca is the least shiftiest person in the world,” he wonders aloud. “Then I asked my sister—and—,” he pauses, looking at Armie distractedly, “— _fuck,_ you look so pale. Was it my fault?”

“What?”

“Is my blood diseased, or something?” Timmy asks worriedly. “Is that why you’re unwell?”

Armie couldn’t help but let out a devastated laugh, because God, Timmy. “No, fuck no,” Armie shakes his head and gazes down at Timmy, at his open expression, at his willingness to do everything—and gosh, Armie could read him like an open book.

He wishes he could tell Timmy to shield himself from vile creatures, including Armie himself.

For Timmy to protect his body, his heart, his soul.

“It’s not your fault,” he reassures Timmy, before shaking his head in incredulity. “Why do you always put yourself down?”

“So you won’t, I guess—,” Timmy replies, before he realizes what he’s done. “Fuck,” he says, before rubbing his face furiously with the balls of his palms. He looks just as distraught as Armie does, and tears are beginning to well up in his eyes.

There’s confusion and hurt and worry, all colliding against each other—and _fuck,_ Armie feels it too—whatever it is that Timmy is feeling. It feels like a punch in the gut, a slap to the face.

It hurts so much, and before long Armie realizes that he’s crying too.

“This is cringeworthy,” Timmy says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. “I don’t know why I’m crying—and I’m so, so sorry.”

“Timmy, you haven’t done anything wrong,” Armie says. “Why are you saying sorry for?”

“I’m sorry—,” Timmy says, without being quite able to look at Armie, “—if I offended you when I asked about your fangs. It’s just that—my sister loves playing around with it so much, and she doesn’t seem to be able to control it at the tiniest sight of blood,” he sniffles. “Luca wasn’t joking when he said that you have really good self-control.”

Armie sighs. “I’ve been doing this for three centuries, my dear.”

Timmy nods, before willing himself to look at Armie again. “You should clean up,” he says, wiping a bloodstain from Armie’s cheek with the edge of his thumb.

“I’m sorry too,” Armie murmurs, unable to stop himself from leaning into the warm touch. “I’m sorry,” Armie explains, “—that I haven’t been honest with you.” Timmy looks at him, confused—but Armie expediently changes the subject. “I need to get out of these clothes,” he jerks his head away, before peering down at his clothes. “Meet me downstairs,” Armie says, his gaze flickering towards the grandfather’s clock behind Timmy. “Half an hour," he says, "--and I'll tell you everything."

“Half an hour,” Timmy echoes solemnly, like it’s a promise he has to keep.

 

* * *

 

Armie has changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, has cleaned up all the blood from his skin. His crimson trench coat is in one machine, while his white shirt is in the other. He watches the cycle of the tumble wash patiently, pulling up his knees to his chest, when he hears Timmy making his way down the steps.

He _knows_ it’s Timmy – because his headaches, they’re going, going—

_Gone._

Like magic.

Timmy’s gaze falls upon the red trench coat tumbling away gently in the machine.

“You know—,” he grins, “—you’re the only person to walk into northern Italy in the middle of summer wearing a fucking trench coat. I think that’s the most memorable first impression I have of you,” he says, before sitting next to Armie on the table, watching the machines at work. “It’s not that you’re this tall, scary vampire. It’s that fucking trench coat, with the collars popped up. Like Dracula, or something.”

Armie snorts.

“I’m surprised no one called you out for being a vampire just by how you dress,” Timmy adds teasingly.

“I’ve had several vampire acquaintances who called me Edward Cullen,” Armie shrugs. “Speaking of _Twilight_ —that’s the thing I need to mention to you,” he says in all seriousness, “—when I said I needed to be honest with you.”

“You’re going to be in _Twilight?_ ” Timmy suddenly asks—with such candid curiosity that never fails to surprise Armie. There is no hint of sarcasm at all in that query, and Armie has to bite the insides of his cheeks to stop himself from laughing out loud.

“What? No!” Armie exclaims, before scratching his head. He stretches his long legs, the balls of his toes now touching the floor. Close enough to touch Timmy’s feet, but a still a distance far enough. Sighing, Armie pinches the bridge of his nose before explaining to Timmy what he thinks is going on – a similar exposition he’s recounted to Luca a few mornings ago.

And Timmy listens to him patiently, like an erudite pupil heeding the counsel of a wise sage. 

“So,” Armie summarises, “—it’s like, quote unquote, _‘You’re like my personal brand of heroin,’_ or something,” he says. “God, I can’t believe I just quoted that _Twilight_ nonsense out loud,” he groans, before covering his face with his palms in total embarrassment. “Am I in fucking withdrawals, then?”Armie asks himself. “I’m so fucking pathetic,” he mumbles into his hands.

“Armie, Armie, _Armie_ —,” Timmy reaches out and gently pulls his hands away, “— _no_ , it isn’t pathetic,” he insists. “You’re _suffering_ —because of me. “

Armie looks at Timmy as if he’s insane— none of this was his fault, and yet Timmy’s blaming himself? “I really didn’t want to drag you into this,” he tells Timmy.

“We’re in this together, brother,” Timmy furrows his brows, before shifting closer towards Armie. “So,” he says thoughtfully, “—you’re saying that you feel better when I’m closer to you?”

Armie nods gently—before asking, _“Why?”_

Timmy doesn’t reply.

Instead, he reaches up and wraps an arm around Armie’s neck, pulling him into a loose hug. The sudden movement causes Armie to jolt, to stand up immediately –but Timmy doesn’t let go. The hug tightens. Armie doesn’t know what to do with his arms, so he decides to return the embrace—and something inside him snaps. He lowers his head to rest against Timmy’s shoulder. Moves his arms around Timmy’s waist.

They fit around Timmy perfectly.

Armie’s been in purgatory for too long, and if this is how heaven feels like, then God, he could stay here forever. He hasn’t felt like this – like he’s _home,_ since Elizabeth. He doesn’t want to let go. It doesn’t seem like Timmy is going to let go any time soon, either. Long fingers entangled in Armie’s damp hair, as Armie pulls Timmy closer against him.

Their bodies moulding against each other.

“Better now?” Timmy murmurs against the crook of his neck.

Armie pulls away abruptly at the question—because now, Timmy is no longer in Elio’s skin, but Oliver’s. Armie is the emotional, unreliable narrator of this story—and he couldn’t trust himself to describe what he’s currently seeing in Timmy’s eyes.

“The offer still stands,” Timmy says, “—you know?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Armie whispers gutturally.

“You once said that the peach scene requires _trust,”_ Timmy counters, “—and so does letting someone drink your blood and trusting that they won’t kill you."

Armie chuckles wryly at Timmy’s argument, before squeezing his hand gently. “Two different analogies,” he says, “—but I see your point.”

“I’m fine with this, honestly,” Timmy insists, in wide-eyed wonder. “Besides, you did say—there’s nothing _here,_ right? There’s nothing _sexual_ about this, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Armie rolls his eyes dramatically at that, causing Timmy to laugh – before it softens into a smile. A kind smile.

A _Timmy_ smile.

“You’re not taking advantage of me,” he says belligerently. “It’s my prerogative. I _want_ you to do this.”

“Do you _really_ trust me that much?” Armie asks.

“This is the only way we’ll find out, won’t we?” Timmy hypothesizes. “Test out this whole soulmate bullshit that Luca’s sprung on you,” he shrugs. “If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t,” Timmy says nonchalantly, before taking off his watch and holds out his wrist towards Armie-- his palm facing upward.

Bearing a libation at Armie’s altar—

And Timmy's offering himself.

Meanwhile, the washing machine continues to rumble on in the background.

“I’m nervous,” Timmy says, when Armie continues to stare at him in disbelief.

“Please,” Timmy pleads. “Do something.”

Armie closes his eyes for a second, before making up his mind for real—by taking Timmy’s offered hand, tugging him closer. Gently, he presses his lips against Timmy’s radial pulse point, before whispering his final warning—“ _This is going to hurt.”_

“Then _please,_ ” Timmy says, “—hurt me.”

It’s all that Armie needed to hear, before he completely lets go.

A sharp sink.

And then, nothing.

 

* * *

 

To his credit, Timmy doesn’t swoon.

He merely grasps firmly at Armie’s shoulder, when he bites into Timmy’s wrist. His curious fingers trailing down Armie’s neck, mapping the hard lines of his collarbones. Timmy hisses when Armie digs deeper into his flesh with his fangs and _sucks._ He squeezes even harder when Armie pulls away.

The look on Timmy’s face is of pure stupefaction; his lips parted in a daze. Armie watches the rise and fall of Timmy’s chest with every breath he takes. Faster, shallower— with every passing second as Armie continues to study Timmy silently.

He rubs at the spot where he’s just drawn blood from Timmy’s wrist, causing him to shudder.

And yet, it’s Timmy who asks, “Better now?”

Armie would be lying if he says he doesn’t feel better. In fact, he hasn’t felt this invigorated in years. Timmy looks pale – and that’s to be expected, but—it plagues him that Timmy’s more concerned about Armie’s wellbeing than his own.

“You okay?” Armie nudges Timmy’s shoulder, in return.

“Me okay,” Timmy replies, with that lopsided smile still etched on his lips. “You look so much better already,” he says, before reaching up to smooth the hairs that have fallen over Armie’s forehead. His fingers move southwards, tracing Armie’s jaw with his knuckles— before pausing at his mouth, wiping blood from the corner of Armie’s lips with the warm pads of his fingers. “So now what happens?” Timmy asks, as he pulls his hand away.

“Now we wait, I suppose,” Armie replies, his gaze falling upon the same fingers that have touched him moments before. Timmy has them balled up into a fist. “The universe hasn’t collapsed – yet,” Armie says. “You’re still breathing. I’m still standing. That’s going to leave a scar, though,” he gestures towards Timmy’s wrist.

“I still have your handkerchief from before,” Timmy says blithely, before pulling it out from his back pocket. “I’d meant to return it, but I suppose I’ll keep it for now,” he says, before attempting to tie it awkwardly around his wrist. Armie offers to help out, and makes a neat knot – not dissimilar to the one he’s made around Timmy’s ankle, on that night at the creek. 

“Also, the makeup department will sort it out,” he says cheerfully, before putting on his watch again. Blissfully rolling his multi-coloured wristbands down to cover the fang-marks. “I really hope this works,” he adds, before turning away as though nothing has happened.

Watching him leave like this—it doesn’t seem right to Armie. He couldn’t quite say why—it just _is._

A brief pause, then:

“Later,” Armie says—this time deliberately, if only just to get a reaction from Timmy.

The gentle smile he gives Armie in return is full of joy—and grief, all at the same time.

 

* * *

 

He finds out from Luca that Timmy and Garrett are going to Bergamo, in two days’ time to shoot some of the outdoor scenes— before returning to Crema to shoot the final scene at the fireplace.

Armie hasn’t spoken to Timmy in person since that night in the laundry room, but they have been more active on _WhatsApp_ – Timmy texting him between different takes of different scenes, while Armie stews inside his room during daytime. Windows shut, sans natural light—with the only illumination coming from his phone screen.

Timmy came home late last night—and Armie doesn’t even have to ask why. He knows that Timmy has shot his love scene with Garrett, and today Timmy’s been sending him endless peach emojis after the end of every sentence.

He knows what this means, so he fires a simple text in return:

 

“I trust you.”

 

Neither Armie nor Luca will be going to Bergamo but that’s okay, he thinks. He hasn’t had the headaches at all – or maybe the white noise is just muffled from one simple taste of Timmy’s blood. It’s been a good few days now, and there’s been nothing. Even while Timmy was away shooting, there was only peace and calm in his mind.

Luca doesn’t ask why he hasn’t been moaning relentlessly, but Armie thinks Luca knows, judging from the way he looks at Armie sometimes.

Timmy texts him from Bergamo, a few days later:

_Luca knows about us._

“How?”

_He asked if I was ok. I spose he’s always been super protective of me._

 

Armie grits his teeth. _Damn you, Luca,_ he thinks.

_But then he pulld me aside one day and rlly asked me if I was ok,_ Timmy continues.

_I thought he was asking about the love scene or the peach scene, but then he looked at my wrist._

 

“He didn’t say anything to me tho,” _Armie texts back._ “What did you tell him?”

_Told him the same thing I told ya._

 

“Which was?”

 

_I trust you._

 

An unspeakable ache rapidly builds up in Armie’s chest— a feeling he couldn’t quite describe. _Timmy’s too kind,_ he thinks.

And it galls him that he doesn’t know how to repay the kindness.

 

* * *

 

Calamity strikes a few hours later, when Armie wakes from his sleep with a start –it’s 2 pm and it feels as though his left ankle has been twisted by some unseen force. As though he’s been walking for miles and slipped down a hole, and has fractured his tib-fib, or something. He sits up immediately and rubs at the sore spot, before trying to stand up. He couldn’t even bear his weight on that feet, and limps to the bathroom, bending over to check his ankle under the fluorescent white light for any bruises.

There isn’t any.

There is no way he could go back to sleep now.

The headache is back with a vengeance, too. Within an hour he feels a dire need to retch – _this is new,_ he thinks, before bending forward and dry heaves into the toilet bowl. His whole gut feels like it’s being pulled up – and yet nothing’s come up his throat.

Armie washes his face and stares up at his reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, hair in disarray. He looks like a fucking mess. The headache is like a background noise, radiating from his temples to the back of his neck, down to his jaw.

It’s fucking _agony_ is what it is.

Why now, though?

Why has it come back _now_?

He limps back to his bed, before he realizes that there have been three missed calls from Timmy.

And Timmy _never_ calls.

Armie’s fingers tremble as he punches the redial button.

“Hey, Timmy?” he asks when Timmy picks up the phone, nausea rising again in his gut—but he tries to swallow it down. “You okay buddy?”

“Hey _Armie—_ ,” Timmy replies, breathlessly. As if he’s in pain, too. His voice sounds faint and distant on the other end of the line.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you having the headaches again?” Timmy asks, his voice now squeaking thin, like he doesn’t wish to talk about this but he has to— as if he’s done something unforgivable.

If Armie has a heart – it would have stopped beating in an instant at that question. “How’d you know?” he asks. “It’s worse than before, actually. I just retched in the toilet and nothing came out, and I’ve never even retched before—like I had some food poisoning, or something.”

Silence on the other end. A pause that seems endless, before Armie hears a sniffle. “Armie, I’m sorry—I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

The panic rising in Armie’s gut is unbearable, and it isn’t just the nausea talking.

“I thought I had a stomach bug too. I threw up just a good half-hour ago,” Timmy explains. “I’ve been having the headaches too. What was it you said – like it’s a bloodbuzz?”

_Fuckfuckfuck fuck fuck fuck._

_Fuck._

Timmy's having the headaches too. And with every pain Timmy feels, Armie could feel it too. 

_Fuck._

“When did it start?” Armie asks gruffly, trying not to scream on the phone.

“A couple of hours ago,” Timmy replies.

“My ankle,” Armie peers down at his foot, “—was that you?” his eyes widen in total alarm. “Shit, Timmy, are you okay?”

“I fell—didn’t break anything, though,” Timmy attempts to reassure him, but fails miserably. How could Armie not worry about Timmy now? Before this, it was something for him to bear alone—and now Timmy’s affected, too. “It was just—a sprain,” Timmy says carelessly. “We were shooting in the mountains and I just slipped and fell and twisted my ankle. I’m okay _, really.”_

It’s Armie’s turn to fall silent. “I don’t know what to say, I—,” he begins, before Timmy cuts him off.

“Armie, stop panicking," Timmy says, like he knows how Armie is feeling, too. "I figured out something.”

“Which is what?”

“Your handkerchief. It helps—,” Timmy stutters, “—with the headaches. I think—you should try it.”

Armie frowns in confusion, although Timmy won’t be able to see his expression. “What, using my handkerchief? To do what?”

Timmy snorts on the other end of the line. He’s moving about – the connection’s not too clear, but Armie hears him anyway. “No, silly—,” Timmy says. “Go to my room and, I don’t know—pick something up, any article of clothing. Use my pillow if you have to, if it will help you sleep better.”

“Wait, what are you trying to tell me?”

“I think having something that belongs to you helps my symptoms,” Timmy explains. “It’s fading, though. As if the longer it stays with me, the less potent it becomes. If you do the same with my belongings--," he pauses, "--are you in my room yet?”

Armis skulks out of his bedroom and limps across the corridor, to enter Timmy’s room quietly. He feels like a fiend, invading Timmy’s privacy. One hand still holding his phone to his ear, he peers around the room and makes sure no one else is here. "I am now."

"Pick something up."

He walks up to Timmy’s bed and picks up a pillow—it smells of him, and already Armie could feel the headache dissipating. Not only that, but his nausea and the pain in his leg have also miraculously been dulled down by a thousand notches.

“Armie, you there?”

“Yeah—,” he blinks gawkily, still clinging onto Timmy’s pillow. “I’m going to sound like a Class A pervert, but this actually works?”

There is a shuffle, some faint voices in the background – Timmy’s name being called. “Shit, they’re calling me,” Timmy says hurriedly. “I have to go.”

“Later,” Armie blurts automatically—a catchphrase that he’s picked up _ironically_ , but now he’s using _sincerely._

Another brief pause—Timmy still hasn’t hung up, and for that Armie is glad.

“I can’t wait get back,” Timmy whispers breathlessly. “I need—,” he chokes, “I _need_ to see you.”

Armie could hear the conflicting emotions in every lilt of Timmy’s tone, and it hurts like hell. “Me too,” he replies—it’s not quite an overt declaration of _‘I miss you’_ , even if it perhaps quantifies to that. Perhaps it’s enough, for now.

And when Timmy finally hangs up, Armie continues to stand in the middle of Timmy’s room. Staring blankly at the space around him, soaking in Timmy’s atmosphere.

Clutching Timmy’s pillow.

Realizing that he’s in too deep in Timmy’s world, to the point where he doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore.

 

* * *

 

Timmy is the one who knocks at his door, one day later.

“Hey, Armie,” he high-fives Armie casually, as if they haven’t had that fucking nerve-wrecking conversation less than twenty-four hours ago. Armie would have been the one to bring the subject up, if not for Timmy suddenly confessing that he’s leaving Crema for LA soon.

“When?” Armie asks, trying not to appear shocked. 

“In three days,” Timmy says. “We’re shooting the fireplace scene tomorrow, and then do some reshoots, and then—I’m going back home.”

 _Home,_ he says.

It reminds Armie that this, whatever this is – it’s just work. And he’s just a single-serving friend with a foreign name, in a foreign land.

An _acquaintance._  

God, Armie hates that word.

“You’re going to LA,” Armie says, suddenly registering that Timmy lives in New York and not LA— and therefore, he must be going away for work.

“Yeah,” Timmy nods awkwardly, before scratching the back of his head and looks down at his shoes. “I’m going to shoot _Lady Bird,_ in August. Are you staying here?”

“I am, but don’t know for how long, though,” Armie replies. “You’re still holding on to my handkerchief, then? Surely the soothing effect has worn off by now,” he says, attempting casual talk just as Timmy is doing, but failing miserably. “I still have your pillow – it helps for a bit, then the headaches start to come back again.”

“Maybe we could send each other stuff," Timmy grins, although the spark that are usually reflected in his eyes aren't there. "I could wear your clothes, maybe,” he says.

“If that's the case, I won’t fit in yours, buddy,” Armie jokes, although the words come out banal. Forced.

“I’ll send you my pillowcases and blankets _after_ I’ve slept in them,” Timmy promises ardently. “I would send you vials of my blood if I could, but—,” Timmy adds, before Armie shushes him with one stern look.

“No, Timmy—,” Armie warns, “—I don’t want you to hurt yourself for my sake. _This_ is a good enough arrangement.”

_Arrangement._

Timmy must have noticed the horrible taste of that word in Armie’s mouth, because his voice suddenly rises in frustration, bordering on fury. “Is that what this is? An _arranged_ friendship?”

“It does sound worse than an arranged marriage,” Armie concurs tiredly. At this point, he’s too worn-out to argue.

Timmy could only stare at him in disbelief. “You’re denying yourself the truth of what you are,” he accuses, but with sadness in his inflection. “ _Who_ you are.”

“And who might that be?” Armie asks coldly. “A monster?”

Timmy shakes his head forlornly. “What you did in your past, I wasn’t privy to it. I’m not your slave, Armie,” he says. “I’m not your serf either. I’d like to think that I’m your friend. Brother in arms. What I did, what I do—it’s out of my own will. The universe has nothing on us. If you want something from me, just _ask._ ”

“What if it’s too big of a question?”

“You’ll never know until you ask, won’t you?”

Armie rubs his temples and closes his eyes, trying to shut out the headache rapidly building in his skull despite Timmy's presence. He mulls this over for a few moments, before making the executive decision to just stop skirting around the subject. To actually _do_ something about it instead of thinking.

He’s been thinking for so long. Maybe that’s why he’s having these splitting headaches.

So Armie takes one step towards Timmy, before asking--

“Can I?”

“Can you what?” Timmy retorts. A fucking dare.  

“Drink your blood,” Armie says, unperturbed by Timmy's challenging stare. “Again.”

Timmy replies simply by holding out his wrist.

Armie shakes his head, mouthing silently, _‘no good’_. “From your neck,” he clarifies.

If Timmy could be so bold, why shouldn’t he?

The sharp gasp that Timmy emits sends shivers down Armie’s spine. “Wow,” he says, after recollecting himself. “That _is_ a big ask.”

“It’s ok if you’re going to say no,” Armie says, before motioning to leave the room. He’s turned his back halfway when he hears Timmy call out his name. “I haven’t said anything yet,” Timmy says, from behind. “Ask me again.”

Armie turns slowly to face Timmy, who is standing tall – taller than he remembered, a few nights ago in the laundry room. “Timmy my dear—,” he begins, “—can I sink my teeth into your neck and drink your blood?” It sounds completely vulgar and uncouth, but it has to be done.

Yet, there is no hesitation at all in Timmy’s reply.

“Yes _please_ ,” he says, before leaning back against the frame of Armie’s bed. As if he’s about to fall, as if he trusts Armie to catch him before he falls. His head lolls back recklessly, giving Armie a perfect view of his neck. Like a sacrificial lamb being put to the slaughter. Like a feast to be consumed.

 _As if daring you to desire them,_  Mr Perlman would have said.

Armie closes the gap between them in one swift stride, before lowering himself and tucking his head underneath Timmy’s chin. He rises up just to breathe against Timmy’s skin; presses the bridge of his nose against the long column of Timmy’s throat. He thumbs at the pulse point, beating only an inch away from the middle of Timmy’s windpipe. Watching the peak and trough of every beat with utter fascination.

Timmy grabs at his arm fiercely—he’s holding his breath, as if willing his heartbeat to slow down, despite the heavy anticipation. Clings onto Armie like he’s a tree, when Armie finally bends down to lap at Timmy’s pulse point with his tongue.

A small sound emanates from Timmy’s throat—resonating throughout Armie’s bones. And when he finally takes a bite—gently, at first, Timmy lets out a small cry.

“Armie— _fuck,_ ” he gasps, his legs now tangling upwards around Armie’s waist, fingers twisted in Armie’s hair. Messing it all up—like how messed up this whole thing is about to become, and yet how right it feels, how he doesn't want this to stop. 

This feels so much better than just the bite on Timmy’s wrist. The blood flow is stronger, and Armie gladly drinks every drop that flows into his mouth like a fountain. He knows he has to stop now though, before he accidentally kills Timmy —and with a loud groan, Armie pulls away. Studying the far-off look Timmy wears on his face—as Timmy too, is studying Armie intently.

Blood is still dripping off Timmy’s neck, crimson drops onto his white t-shirt. It feels like a waste not to jump back and have another taste of Timmy’s blood, of sweat and skin, feeling the rise and fall of Timmy’s pulse against the tip of his tongue. He sucks at the spot until the blood dries out, as Timmy’s hold around his neck tightens.

Armie thinks that if this is one of the last chances that they’ll be able to do this, then why not let go of his inhibitions?

From what Luca’s been saying, there’s every expectation that Timmy will make it big, once this film is released. He’ll be everywhere. He will soar. His name will live forever in the way that Armie’s never will, because Armie will have to be satisfied with _hiding._

But they’ve been good. They’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.

Because _this_ is what vampires do, right?

So Armie runs his hands up and down the expanse of Timmy’s back, and gosh—he really doesn’t understand why Timmy acts like he’s small. When Timmy's this tall, lanky awkward thing that is only dwarfed by Armie’s entire being. Armie thinks he could easily bend Timmy like a twig; to break him. To hurt him.

But Armie couldn’t bend Timmy's will.

Timmy's  _heart._

To do that would break Armie's own.

He wants to slide his hands underneath Timmy’s shirt, to trap the warmth against Timmy’s skin underneath his palms.

Timmy is the one who pulls away first, rubbing absentmindedly at his neck. “Now they’re all going to think that I have a hickey, huh?” he chuckles.

“You could make a girlfriend jealous,” Armie replies drily.

Timmy stares at Armie’s lips; perhaps fascinated by the bloodstains –his _own_ blood—at the corners of Armie’s mouth.  

Armie couldn’t help but steal a glance down Timmy’s mouth, too.

But that would be a step too far.

 _This is enough_ , he thinks. _This is one thing he should not ask._

 

_\--_

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I firmly believe that the next chapter will be the last one. Hopefully. And then I'll publish the actual playlist specifically for this fic -- which now is up to 28 songs. That's a lot, innit?
> 
> Meanwhile, here's a CMBYN specific playlist which I've created weeks ago, for your listening pleasure while you're reading the fic--  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/incendiarywit/playlist/3pQLEqUjhZecl57LM8hS6O
> 
> Would be glad to hear what your thoughts are -- whether about the fic, the film, the playlists -- just give me a shout :D


	6. Chapter 6

There is no fanfare or spectacle when the time does come for Timmy to leave. It all feels civilised, almost Victorian, more stiff-upper-lip than any Englishman in those bygone eras whom Armie has personally met. It feels as if any emotional attachment between them has been made null and void.

It’s fucking ridiculous.

Because despite what happened a few nights ago, it doesn’t mean that the headaches won’t come back, though.

He still feels it. It’s there. It’s contained for the time being, but he knows it will soon return with full force, once the potency of Timmy’s blood has died down.

To prepare for any inconvenient possibilities, Armie and Timmy have pragmatically decided to exchange clothes and items every so often – which also means exchanging addresses, which _also_ means that now Timmy and Armie both know where the other lives.

“Once you’re sick of this place, come to New York,” Timmy says, bright-eyed and joyful. “I’ll show you around.”

Armie frowns. “But I’ve been to New York,” he replies, almost mulishly. 

“Sure you have,” Timmy rolls his eyes. “But not with a guide,” he nudges Armie mischievously, before reaching out to grasp the corners of Armie’s trench coat. “I’ll miss this coat,” he says, his expression forlorn—with a tinge of melancholy in his tone.

“It isn’t quite Oliver’s _billowy_ shirt, but—“ Armie hesitates, pursing his lips. He considers what he's about to do for a brief second, before finally taking off the trench coat and folds it up neatly. “Have it,” he hands the heavy coat to Timmy, who stares up at him in total surprise. “Return it to me when you see fit. Hopefully it will help—,” he pauses, making swirly motions with his fingers near his temples, “—you know, with those headaches.”

Timmy continues to blink up at him, as if willing his tears to stop welling up in his eyes. He is unable to speak, either-- as if all the words he wants to say are caught up in his throat, and if he betrays himself by opening his mouth the dam would burst, that there would be tears everywhere, that he would do something he would regret. 

So this _is_ goodbye, then.

 _‘I don’t want you to go’_ are the words Armie wishes he could say.

“I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you at the airport when you leave,” are the words that he says, instead.

 _What a coward,_ he chides himself. 

_What a fucking coward._

 

* * *

 

Despite the abrupt, unceremonious departure, this isn’t some tragic love story like Oliver and Elio – at least, that is what Armie would like to think. This isn’t the 1980s, where communication is far limited than what they are equipped with in 2016. Timmy is always there, if Armie wishes to reach for him.

This is not the end of the world.

He returns to LA a week after Timmy left. Luca has tried to ask him questions, but Armie doesn’t feel like he’s ready to tell Luca anything – not yet. He still needs to process what has happened, and it’s best that he stays away from Crema for a while, so as to extricate himself from a distracting environment as much as he can.

Because everything in that place reminds him of Timmy.

Everything in Luca’s palazzo – the piano, the doors, the corridors; the bicycles in the shed. The square in Crema, the Piave memorial, Antonio’s pig farm— of fireflies in the creek and flashlights and old washing machines.

Of the people and things that Timmy has loved, whom loves him in return.

For two months they keep sending each other clothes and blankets, mostly things that have been worn once and then unwashed – because they have experimented on different things to test out different potencies, to help with the headaches. It is worrying, though, that Armie thinks he could feel more things now – things that should have been private in Timmy’s thoughts.

Timmy's feelings.

The pain and the hurt and the confusion and the desires, as vague as they are-- but Armie feels them anyway. 

(He briefly wonders if Timmy could feel the same way he's feeling, and this thought fills him up with anxiety). 

It’s only dulled when a new pair of socks of Timmy’s has arrived in the post, or a baseball cap (Armie rarely wears baseball caps but now he supposes he has to, if he wants to really get this headache under control), or a pillowcase.

In return, Armie sends him his clothes – a McQueen t-shirt, a Saint Laurent hoodie, a Thom Browne jumper. He rarely wears them anyway, so it’s okay.

It’s 2 am on an summery August night, though the season is changing rapidly and autumn is just around the corner. He doesn’t know why –perhaps there’s something in the new pillowcases Timmy’s sent a few days ago that has significantly dulled his aches and pains, but tonight is the first night in the last two months where it feels as though they’re nearly gone.

He’s in the middle of writing a dialogue for a screenplay with his phone screen lights up.

 _Timmy,_ Armie notes happily. A smile flickers across his face even without him realizing it. 

“Heyyyyyyyyy,” he bellows good-naturedly into the phone. “Timmy buddy,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Happy Birthday, Armie,” Timmy says. Armie thinks he could easily picture the smile on Timmy's face as he says the words, before Armie does a double take and blinks in surprise. 

Because no one knows his birth date. 

His _real_ one. 

Sitting straighter in his chair, he says, “Thanks—," albeit hesitatingly, “--but how did you know?”

“Luca told me,” Timmy chuckles-- (of course it's Luca, why does Armie even have to ask?) -- before Timmy's tone turns solemn again. "How are you?"

"I'm good, thanks. And you?"

Timmy hasn't had the chance to answer, because it is at that moment that Armie hears a siren outside his window– an ambulance siren, the same siren that is now emanating from Armie’s phone.

The same siren noise in Timmy’s background.

“Wait,” Armie abruptly stands up from his chair and strides purposefully to his apartment door, “Where are you?” he asks.

It takes only a second for Timmy to answer, but for Armie it feels like a lifetime.

“I’m downstairs,” Timmy says. “I’m outside your building door.”

 

* * *

 

When Armie buzzes him in, it takes forever for Timmy to come up to his door. Or perhaps it’s only because of Armie’s skewed perception of time. How it’s relative, and all that?

He waits at the doorframe like a nervous wreck, like an inexperienced actor who is about to go into his first audition. When Timmy does appear in his corridor, Armie pretends that he hasn’t waited long. That he’s perfectly calm. He _was_ an actor, he could pull this off.

It’s true, though -- Armie  _does_ feel calm. In fact, his headache is receding significantly with every step that Timmy takes towards him.

Timmy hasn’t changed at all – except maybe his clothes, and his hair. There’s still gawkiness in his stride, which is endearing – but there’s also a renewed sense of vigour. Of confidence. As if his steps become lighter when he sees Armie, his smile wider.

“Hey,” Timmy says, with a small overnight bag in tow.

Armie decides to tease him by pretending to block the entrance to his apartment with all 6 foot 5 of him, and interrogates Timmy at the door.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uhhhhhhh--," Timmy begins, "We’re starting shooting in 2 days,” he explains. “In Sacramento. I thought I’d pay you a visit. I’m not—disturbing you, am I?” he asks, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Armie notes with full interest that Timmy is wearing Armie’s blue Thom Browne shirt, the one he’s sent a week ago. It’s not quite Billowy, but it’s the closest one he could find in his closet. It used to fit Armie perfectly, but on Timmy it looks massive. 

_Billowy._

“I could—go, if you want,” Timmy says with uncertainty, before turning away. Armie could almost taste Timmy’s nervousness on the tip of his tongue. Feeling slightly guilty, Armie reaches out to tap Timmy’s shoulder, to tell him it’s okay, that he wants Timmy here. “No, I— _stay,_ ” Armie says, before letting out a sharp gasp. His gruelling headache, which has toned down significantly since Timmy’s arrival, has instantaneously resolved with one touch.

He knows Timmy feels it too, because he flinches and turns back to face Armie, with an undecipherable look on his face. One that spells relief, pleasure, anticipation—all at the same time.  

“I’m glad you came,” Armie says, because it’s the truth. His hand still on Timmy’s shoulder, his thumb lingering upwards to trace the elegant line of Timmy’s neck.

Timmy shudders.

Suddenly, he reaches out and tugs at the fronts of Armie’s buttoned shirt, pulling him forward for a firm embrace. His arms wrapped around Armie’s waist, before Timmy’s hands slide up his back. “I miss you,” Timmy says tearfully into Armie’s chest. “I miss you so damned much.”

Armie returns the embrace and draws Timmy closer in his arms. Tucking his chin above Timmy’s head, against the soft dark curls of his hair. He’s grown it out, too. It’s longer that Armie he remembers, and yet it looks good on him. He smells of sunshine and tangerines and bergamot, but also of subway cars and smoke and the city lights. He kisses the crown of Timmy’s head, before murmuring, “Me too, buddy. Me too.”

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t usually have guests, let alone _human_ guests. So when Timmy walks into his LA apartment, looking around the place, fully taking in the view – Armie suddenly feels a sudden sense of shame. His place isn’t as welcoming as Luca’s palazzo – it’s austere and empty and miserable. It’s Armie’s apartment but he wouldn’t necessarily call it _home_ , but it’s his _own_ space— so to suddenly let someone in like this makes him feel exposed.

 _But it’s okay,_ he thinks.

It’s Little Timmy Tim.  

_It’s going to be okay._

And judging from Timmy’s face, he looks like he’s awestruck. Armie couldn’t help but smile at the pure joy he witnesses on Timmy’s expression. “You weren’t lying when you said you have the first edition of _Fathers and Sons_!” he squeaks, as he peers at the books on Armie’s shelf. Timmy’s tears have dried completely, but his face is still flushed with thousands of complex emotions, all blurring into one. But for now, Armie could feel the unmitigated happiness settling contently in his gut, even if he’s not sure if it’s his own or if it’s Timmy’s.

Maybe it’s shared between them, tied by the red string of fate. 

It’s only then that he realizes how he has no food to serve Timmy. He’s not playing a good host, because he’s sorely out of practice. Standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room, Armie asks Timmy— “Have you had dinner? We could get takeaway if you want.”

Timmy purses his lips, shrugging with a contented smile. “I already had dinner.”

Armie still ends up rummaging through his kitchen cabinets and drawers for something, anything—even if they’re some cheap motel mints or Pop Tarts that are past their expiry dates. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He doesn’t know why there is this sudden need to impress Timmy, as if he needs to outdo Luca’s hospitality in Crema.  He eventually decides on a bag of unopened pistachios, before pouring its contents into an 18th century Furstenberg China bowl. “Hey, I have some pistachios,” he yells from the kitchen. “From—,” he reads the label on the packaging, “—August 2014, if you’ll have that.”

“Really, Armie—it’s fine,” Timmy replies, his voice rising above the muffled TV noise, an episode rerun of _Law and Order_. Armie could hear the fondness in Timmy’s inflection, which immediately brings an unexpected smile on Armie’s lips.

He returns to the living room with the bowl of pistachios and a glass of tap water, where he finds a stack of neatly piled clothes and his Calvin Klein trench coat— all freshly laundered and laid out on the chair, just opposite the couch where Timmy is sitting.

“There’s your coat,” Timmy says, gesturing with his head, as Armie sinks into the couch next to him.  His overnight bag is now empty, and Armie realizes that he’s come here to return Armie’s clothes – all of which have lost their potency in muffling Timmy’s headaches. “Your handkerchief is there too,” Timmy says, pointing at the tiny white cloth with Cyrillic letters initialled at the corners of it, carefully folded atop the pile of clothes.

“Thanks for the clothes,” Timmy says—too quickly, as if he couldn’t stand any silence between them at all. As if he needs to fill it with words. As if he couldn’t bear just letting Armie watch him, as if he’s a different person post-Crema and is an impostor. “My mom wonders where I’m getting all these designer clothes from,” he gestures to the shirt he’s wearing, “—and my friend joked that I have a sugar daddy.”

“What??”

“No, really,” Timmy laughs, “—it’s true. I’ve never worn a Thom Browne shirt or a Gucci jumper before. Meanwhile,” he scratches the back of his head in embarrassment, “I kept sending you cheap pillowcases and Ikea blankets.”

“Doesn’t matter as they long as they work. The pillowcases were a brilliant idea, by the way,” Armie reassures him. “And the socks. And the sunglasses,” he adds, with a slight chuckle. “That was a nice touch. I don’t wear sunglasses often, but—it really helped with the pressure behind my eyes.”

“My mom went nuts when I told her I’m having headaches,” Timmy snickers. “We had to go for MRI scans and everything—,” he says, fixing his gaze at the distance between his knees and Armie’s—they’re separated by a few inches, maybe. He doesn’t dare to move closer then, but it is Armie who makes the first move— by gently settling his hand atop Timmy’s fingers.

“This feels nice,” Timmy says, as he turns his palm upwards, interlinking his fingers with Armie’s. “It feels nice not to have that buzz all the time.”

“How do we fix this though?” Armie asks, before resting his head against Timmy’s. As if there is a magnetic pull that he couldn’t resist.

“I don’t know,” Timmy whispers, before looking up at Armie inquiringly. He traces the edges of Armie’s  thumb with his own, before Armie reciprocates the movement. “Does it need fixing, though?”

It’s a question that Armie doesn’t really have the answer to. What would it mean if this gets fixed? If he no longer has this connection with Timmy – would they even still speak to each other? Or are they merely friends with benefits?

“I never really liked LA, you know,” Timmy suddenly says. He pulls his head away from Armie, but he still doesn’t let go of their interlocking hands. “It’s the people, the vast expanse, the wide skies. I feel vulnerable, almost. Lonely.”

Armie’s hold on Timmy’s hand tightens. “And now?”

“I think I could learn to love it.”

Armie sighs, before extricating his hand from Timmy’s, causing the younger man to look at him quizzically—as if he’s been rejected. Armie merely gives him a wistful smile, before using the same hand to run his fingers in Timmy’s hair. Grazes his fingernails against Timmy’s scalp with a gentle pressure. The slight movement makes Timmy gasp, his eyelids fluttering, lips parted. “This time next year, you’ll be in LA more often,” Armie says. “People will be raving about your performance. I’ve seen the cuts of the film, you know. You and Garrett—people will be asking you how that relationship formed on camera, how it was in real life, and all that. People might even say that what you felt for him was real.”

“It _was_ real,” Timmy replies forthrightly. He must have seen a flicker of surprise on Armie’s face, because then he asks, “Are you jealous?”

Armie furrows his brows and pulls his hand away from Timmy’s head, before crossing his arms defensively. “Why would I be?”

Timmy rubs his eyes—in what Armie initially thought as him feeling tired, before Timmy’s entire body starts to quake in uncontrollable laughter. Armie could only stare at him in shock. “This is funny, you know—,” he chuckles, before licking his lips, “Garrett was texting me the other day,” he says. Timmy’s calmed down enough from his hysterical laughter now, to say, “I think he _knows.”_

“What—,” Armie blinks, “—that I’m a vampire?”

Timmy looks at Armie in confusion, before screwing his face in disbelief. “No,” he chuckles again, after a few beats. “That there’s something going on between us,” Timmy explains.

Armie clenches his fists on his lap. “Is there something going on between us?”

An uncomfortable beat, then:

“I don’t know,” Timmy replies, before letting out a heavy sigh.

He’s about to stand up from the couch before Armie grabs at his hand again, tugging him back gently. Timmy lets himself fall back ungracefully onto the couch with a thud, all limbs flailing. Wrestles Armie ungracefully to find balance, before anchoring his knees to straddle Armie’s lap. In this light, with Timmy above him, it feels like Timmy is the one who has the power to destroy Armie.

And destroy him Timmy does.

Timmy runs his hands up the hard planes of Armie’s chest, the fabric of Armie’s starched white shirt. As if he is trying to commit the memory of this very sensation against his skin. Armie places his hand atop Timmy’s, causing the younger man to pause in his action. Their gazes connected as Timmy looks down at him quizzically.

Armie replies by reaching up and cradling Timmy’s face in his hands, fingers caressing his sharp jaw. Moving lower to his throat. Thumbs the patch of skin of where he once marked Timmy. “I want—if I can,” Armie says. “Can I?” he asks, unsure.

“Of course you can,” Timmy replies, without even batting an eyelash.

Armie could feel the vibration of Timmy’s vocal cords when he speaks, before he turns them over – trapping Timmy between the couch and himself, and leans down to press a soft kiss against Timmy’s pulse point. Timmy could only reply by clutching harder at the collar of Armie’s shirt. His fingers digging feverishly into the back of Armie’s neck, pulling the soft hairs at Armie’s nape.

“I’m sick, aren’t I?” Timmy asks, suddenly.

Armie pulls away from Timmy’s neck, before pressing a gentle kiss on his forehead. “You already know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”

Timmy nods. “ _’I wish everyone is as sick as you_ ,’” he recites Oliver’s line from the peach scene, his voice quivering. “Do you?”

“Even so, everyone’s _not_ you,” Armie replies, before leaving butterfly kisses down the hollow of Timmy’s throat. “This is going to hurt,” he mouths against Timmy’s collarbone, before trailing up to the marked spot again.

“I _know,_ ” Timmy says gently—yet with a knowing smile, etched confidently on his lips. “But I trust you.”

 

* * *

 

Later that night, they lie on Armie’s bed – fully clothed, limbs tangled between them that Armie no longer knows where he begins and Timmy ends.

“I love this, Armie,” Timmy says, “—and I’m not just recounting Elio’s lines. I really _do_ love this. It’s like I don’t have anything to worry about in the world. It feels _good_.”

Armie hums contentedly, lost in tranquillity. With his fingertips, Armie traces the sharp lines of Timmy’s nose, the corners of his eyes, the softness of his lips– before Timmy darts out his tongue and licks up at Armie’s fingers with an impish expression. Armie pulls back his hand but only to lean down, to look at Timmy, to imprint this moment in his memory forever—

Of Timmy appearing serene, _happy_ – and it’s all because of him.

He jerks back slightly when Timmy sits up, in order to meet Armie halfway— but still, not quite touching each other. Timmy’s parted his lips again, as if to ask, to breathe, to anticipate something that only Armie could provide.

Armie closes the gap between them, noses touching – and he could feel Timmy’s warm breath against his own cold, cold skin. Melting his cold, cold heart.

If he still has one.

He’s losing control of himself.

If he has a heart, if he _has_ a heart—

Timmy’s the one who decides to lick up Armie’s lips, as if to steal a taste of blood that was there only moments ago. But it was Armie who ultimately catches Timmy’s own— in a soft, tender kiss.

 _One kiss,_ he promises himself.

 _We’ve been good. We’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,_ he thinks.

But one kiss turns to two, then three, and god, he could kiss Timmy forever.

And Timmy doesn’t give any indication that he wants to stop, either.

In the end, it is Armie who pulls away first. He would have wanted to ask Timmy, ‘Better now?’—like Oliver would have done, after their first kiss – to tease him, when he feels the sudden, empty pang in his own soul. He knows Timmy feels it too—because the expression he wears now is one that is filled with horror, dread, _fear._

Thunderstruck.

“I can’t feel it anymore,” Timmy whispers—his voice calm, too calm for Armie’s taste, but the fear in his eyes says everything. The blood that’s been drained off his face. The strong grip on Armie’s arm, professing his silent wish of never wanting to let this go. “I can’t feel it anymore,” he repeats himself, like he’s suddenly become dumb and this is all he could say, as if it’s a loss he has yet to comprehend.

As if someone has just died.

As if he needs time to grieve.

“I can’t feel it _anymore_ ,” Timmy says, again. Like a broken record. Like a litany. 

And neither could Armie. The tingling on his skin is completely gone, together with the weariness in his bones. The background noises which he now realizes as Timmy’s thoughts. The ache in his chest, which he now knows is a conflation of Timmy’s feelings. The complexity of his inner world.

Whatever connection he has with Timmy has been severed with one— _no,_ three kisses, maybe more. The fucking irony. Aren’t kisses supposed to be _lovely,_ aren’t kisses supposed to wake up Sleeping Beauty or Snow White?

Surely they shouldn’t be punished for a few kisses, or is this the repayment of their wish to be fixed?

Is a kiss all it takes to cure this? Is this a disease, then?

Surely it’s not as inane as that?

“We need to think about this, Timmy,” Armie says, before shifting away from Timmy. As if he needs to show Timmy that it’s time to rebuild some boundaries. It’s hard to know what Timmy’s thinking, now, when he could no longer feel that bond between them. And to think that for so long he’s taken it for granted. “I need to consult Luca.”

Timmy continues to stare at him silently, his eyes glinting in the dark. Armie now stands in the corner of his room, while Timmy stays in the middle of the unmade bed, knees pulled up to his chest. “Timmy,” Armie pleads, “—please say something.”

When Timmy finally speaks, it isn’t what Armie has expected. He doesn’t know what he’s expected, in the first place. Maybe for Timmy to be angry at him, or to loathe him, or to celebrate his freedom from the torture that Armie has put him through for three months.

“You know what’s scary about this, Armie?” Timmy begins.

Armie shakes his head.

“This is like—the feeling of loss that Elio must have felt after he slept with Oliver,” Timmy says. “That’s how it feels like for me, right now. All that anticipation that builds and builds and heightens to a peak, and then—nothing.”

“Is this nothing, then?” Armie says, before cursing himself silently for the tremble in his voice.

“I don’t know,” is Timmy’s frustrating answer.

“You told me once that you did this out of free will,” Armie points out, before backing himself deeper into the corner of his room. He feels deflated. He’s the one who’s feeling rejected, now. Because in no world would Timmy choose him if there is no force of nature, no trick of the universe, no vampiric soul bond to alter Timmy’s free will.  

 _Don’t get attached don’t get attached don’t get attached don’t get attached don’t get attached,_ he tells himself.

But he doesn’t think he could believe his own mantra anymore, after what he’s been through.

And yet, Timmy continues to surprise him.

“I’m still doing it, Armie. I still am.”

Timmy climbs off the bed and walks up him, to the corner of the room, to confront Armie.

Who’s the predator and who’s the prey now?

“I don’t want you to regret anything,” Armie says, and he registers that it’s an Oliver line. But he means what he’s said, and he’s said it from the bottom of his heart. The heart that he doesn’t have. The soul that he has given away for the promise of near-immortality.

“No,” Timmy shakes his head. “I would gladly do it again, even knowing what it’s costing me.”

“Don’t say things that you don’t mean,” Armie warns.

Timmy merely leans forward and stands on his tiptoes, before placing a firm, final kiss on Armie’s lips.

 

* * *

 

In reality, Sacramento is not that far away. Armie could easily go and visit Timmy if he wishes, but perhaps a period of reflection is required to process what had just occurred between them.

They’ve shared one last kiss.

One last hug.

Timmy’s left pistachio shells all over the house. Armie will have to talk to him about that, next time he visits.

 _If_ there is a next time.

Matt Haig once wrote, _‘That's the thing with time, isn't it? It's not all the same. Some days - some years - some decades - are empty. There is nothing to them. It's just flat water. And then you come across a year, or even a day, or an afternoon. And it is everything._ _It is the whole thing.’_

 _Like that summer in Crema,_ Armie thinks.

Like _tonight._

But for now, Armie stands alone in the middle of his Spartan apartment. Glancing at the now empty, lifeless space, he could hear only the hums of the floor heating, and the echoing ticks of his clock. He stares at the empty the Furstenberg China bowl, now lying sadly on the coffee table.

He feels empty.

 _Don’t get attached don’t get attached don’t get attached don’t get attached don’t get attached,_ he thinks.

But it’s too late now.

For the first time, Armie is terrified by the idea that he could feel _lonely._  

 

* * *

 

There is an apartment complex, somewhere in New York City.

Five minutes to midnight.

It’s December 27 – two days after Christmas, and festive lights are still shining.  There are people still roaming the streets at this time of night, out celebrating the New Year that is yet to come.

A Christmas tree is left out by the streets, divested off its decorations.  A stray cat yawns and scratches its ears with its paws, leaving a trail of paw prints in the half-melted snow.

There is a tall man, clad in a white shirt and a crimson trench coat. He shoves his cold fingers into his pockets, before pulling out a tuna can. Opening the lid, he bends down and he leaves the opened tuna can by a stoop— hoping that the stray cat would come and have something to eat.

There is a couple in their mid-40s, a man and a woman. The woman registers the tall stranger and catches his gaze, before smiling when she sees the cat at the stoop, licking into the tuna can. The stranger tilts his head and returns her smile.

Timmy, however, is oblivious to all of this.

A stream of text messages has steadily flooded his phone since earlier this evening, wishing him lovely birthday messages – and he hasn’t had the time to reply to them all.

Garrett has sent Timmy a photo of him lounging in sunny LA, palm trees and the Californian coast in the background. How very festive and Christmassy, Timmy thinks sardonically. “Can’t wait for the film to come out,” he’s texted Timmy. It’s fair to say that Timmy feels the same way.

“Me too, brother,” he’s typed back.

Three minutes past midnight.

More birthday messages, all from the people Timmy loves and cares about. But none from _him._

But why would he? He probably wouldn’t know that it’s Timmy’s birthday. Wouldn’t even remember if Timmy did tell him. Other things are more important in his 310 years of life, _non?_

It doesn’t matter if he’s not felt the headaches, if there is no longer any connection between them. He’s not even heard from him in ages, not even on _WhatsApp._ Timmy’s asked Luca – but Luca tells him that he’s moved away from LA, and that Luca has no idea where he’s been, either.

Timmy wonders if he’s still alive.

To think he’s dead – _no,_ it’s not a thought that he could easily reconcile with.

Timmy is about to reply to a text his sister has sent him, before someone rings his doorbell. He wonders if it’s Mrs Zimmerman from next door, who often asks him to help unblock her sink, or change a lightbulb. _Bless her,_ he thinks, as he ambles towards the door. He peers through the peephole but no one is there.

 _Strange,_ he thinks.

He’s moved three steps away from the door when something falls through the mail slot.

A piece of cloth.

A _familiar_ piece of cloth.

A handkerchief—with embroidered, tiny Cyrillic alphabets.

 _His_ initials.

Timmy pulls the door wide open, and finally sees _him_ standing there – all 6 foot 5 of him, in that fucking crimson trench coat, with his collars popped up— _like Dracula,_ he thinks, and he thinks he could cry just at the sight of _him._

He could _cry._

There are so many things Timmy wants to say, but he’s too stunned to even speak.

In the end, it’s _him_ who breaks the silence.

“Hello, Little Timmy Tim,” Armie smiles. He's holding up a book-- the first edition of Turgenev’s _Fathers and Sons,_ in its original Russian.

Another beat passes before he adds, in that gentle, kind, deep voice of his that Timmy's missed so much--

_“Happy Birthday."_

 

* * *

 

When Timmy jumps straight into his arms for a hug, Armie doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he pulls Timmy closer. Wrapping his arms around Timmy’s neck, his waist, the entire expanse of his body. Even when he pulls away, it is only to gaze upon Timmy’s face and to wonder why he’s tormented himself for so long, when he should have known that Timmy’s love for him is unconditional.

As is his love for Timmy.

Even when Armie leans down to kiss Timmy, he accepts the truth— and now he’s a better man for it.

Oliver and Elio? No, this is Armie and Timmy, through and through. 

They are who they are and this is what it is, and there's nothing else to it.  

Call it friendship, call it romance.

Call it being soulmates.

Call it the luck of the universe.

To Armie, it’s _unconditional,_ is what it is.

 

* * *

 

There was pain and hurt – there was pleasure and joy.

He has loved and been loved, he has hated and been hated.

He has lived – and he has died.

And now, he lives again.

 

.end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks guys, for the wild ride. I loved writing this. I hope you guys find it ok, but if you find any mistakes, let me know. 
> 
> Idk, idk, maybe there will be more in this universe. Consider this a Christmas gift, or something. So, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year?
> 
> The Spotify playlist for this fic is here: https://open.spotify.com/user/incendiarywit/playlist/5VVbHHgT37RWodNEv1QWT0
> 
> And lastly, for the original anon who requested this-- I am deeply sorry if this hasn't lived up to your expectations, or if it's nothing like what you've originally wanted. The plot just ran away from me.


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